A Merry War
by TrivialQueen
Summary: Young Macintosh/ OFC. Rosalyn Brolchain was raised to be mindful of her temper and reserved with her emotions. Winter winds, ice and snow rise when her temper flairs. Hers is a cold fury. Out of her four sisters Rosalyn is the most in control. Unless Dougal Macintosh is concerned, then she is as raw as the winds she conjures.
1. Chapter 1

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary in Brief: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC. Rated for Language and Adult Themes.

Summary in Full: The fates of not only Merida, but also Young MacGuffin, Young Macintosh, and Wee Dingwall were all changed the day it was decided that they should marry for love rather than politics.

The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend.

They say clan Brolchain is cursed. That when they allow their emotions to get the better of them more than their tempers is let loose. And once the heavens open there is no controlling the tempest. Rosalyn Brolchain was raised to be mindful of her temper and reserved with her emotions. Winter winds, ice and snow rise when her temper flairs. Hers is a cold fury. Out of her four sisters Rosalyn is the most in control. Unless Dougal Macintosh is concerned, then she is as raw as the winds she conjures.

_Author's note: This story is partially inspired by two of my favorite works – _Much Ado about Nothing_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. Because I love both of these stories so much I could not help but include some of my favorite sense and pieces in this story. So if the dialogue is particularly witty it is probably not mine but instead the property of either Ms. Austen or the Bard. It is also influenced by the delightfully trashy romance novel _To Scotland, with Love_ by Karen Hawkins. So again, if it seems clever or like a good idea it probably isn't mine!_

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Chapter One

_It's been said before and it will be said again, but there is no better way to put it; heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. And when that fury is already herself cursed, well, wee ones; there is no force in that can control what will happen.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"According to this letter." Laird Brolchain began, struggling to make himself heard over the clatter of dishes and giggles of gossip that was his breakfast table. "According to this letter Lord Macintosh and our clansmen are to return tonight… This includes Young Macintosh, does it not?" Suddenly the room fell silent. Four pairs of eyes in unison turned to stare at their father. Laird Brolchain smiled wryly and turned his attention to the messenger beside him. The young man shifted slightly under the scrutiny of the room, his face flushing beneath his blue paint.

"Yes, both Lords Macintosh along with their clansmen will be returning this eve, when I learned of this they were but nine miles from the harbor."

"And what of the Games?" the Laird asked, laying aside the missive to study the messenger. Thomas Brolchain had been Lord Macintosh's second in the great war, he was now second in the Lord's land, in charge when Lord Macintosh was away ( and sometimes when he was not), his reward for faithful service.

"It was a narrow defeat to Clan MacGuffin; we lost by but two metals, an improvement of six from the last Games."

"A loss is still a loss, but what of the major contest? Who won the Princess' hand?" The messenger now was truly uncomfortable. He shifted side to side, rocking on his feet, fingering the hem of his sash.

"The Princess did milord."

"What?!" Six voices in unison questioned. The messenger flinched.

"I-I do not know all the details yet, milord, but from what I understand the rules of the competition simply state that only the first born of the clan is eligible to participate. The Princess Merida is the first born of her family. She shot for her own hand in the archery contest and won, she split the wee Lord Dingwall's arrow right down the middle. She won." Across the table Thomas' eyes found his wife's gaze, her dark brows raised so high they almost disappeared into her hair. _The princess had won her own betrothal?_

"But who will marry the princess?" he pressed.

"I do not know sir; I have not heard the verdict. The last I knew The Princess and the Queen had exiled themselves until a decision could be reached. Of the three suitors Ennis Dingwall's arrow hit the bull's eye but Princess Merida won the contest."

"So Dougal lost?"

"Dougal is not betrothed?"

"Dougal is still single? He can marry me then!"

"He wouldn't marry you! He will marry me for I am certainly prettier than you!"

The silence of the room was lost as the four younger daughters of Brolchain began to argue amongst themselves, having worked out that if the Princess and Lord Dingwall's son had won the Betrothal contest the handsome son of Lord Macintosh was still on the marriage market. The squealing was nearly too much for the hounds at his feet, they whined and looked at him with mournful eyes. Thomas was inclined to agree with them.

"And how did Young Lord _Montonto_ take such failure?"1 Through the din of high pitched praise the scathing question cut like a sword. Thomas turned to his eldest daughter who had posed the question. She was scowling at her younger siblings and their love of the Lord's heir. Lord Brolchain loved all five of his daughters equally, but it was with his eldest, Rosalyn, that he truly identified. Even when they did not agree he could understand her point of view, except in one thing, her overwhelming distaste for Dougal Macintosh.

"Rosalyn!" he scolded, grey eyes narrowing, jaw firmly set. It was bad enough that whenever she was near the young Lord she could not keep her tongue; she did not need to be contemptuous in the presence of strangers. "You tax Young Macintosh too much and it is far from becoming of a lady." Rosalyn returned his gaze with a matching one, meeting his steel eye with her own.

"He shot well, milady, he did the clan proud and performed admirably in the games." The messenger said standing a little taller until Rosalyn's withering eye turned on him.

"He was given a stage; my Lord Macintosh has always been a performer."

"And an excellent athlete, Lady."

"An athlete to a lady? What is he to a Lord I wonder?" Thomas sighed heavily and tried to interrupt what was quickly dissolving into an argument. Rosalyn was in one of her moods and was not willing it seemed to capitulate. Neither was the messenger.

"He is a lord to a lord, a man to a man, and stuffed with all honorable virtues." He replied.

"Aye yes, he is no less than a stuffed man."

"Rosalyn! Enough!" Thomas said firmly, his nostrils flaring. Rosalyn pursed her lips. "You must not mistake my daughter, and take her words the wrong way. There is a kind of merry war betwixt young Dougal and her. They never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them."

"And I always win!" Rosalyn added haughtily. His fierce look had only bought a moment of silence out of his eldest child. "In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one."

"I can see plainly that you have no love for the young Lord."

"Rosalyn, please." Rhiannon tried, but the girl paid no more attention to her mother than she had her father.

"If he were in my books I would burn my study."

"You will never admit his beauty or give into his charm, will you sister?" Fiona teased snidely.

"Not until a hot January!" Rosalyn declared, tossing her napkin onto the table and standing tautly.

"Not even then! Ros doesn't even like men," Ina added with a cackle, "she only likes her books!" Rosalyn turned from the table so quickly her skirt snapped behind her. As she retreated from the breakfast room she could hear the chorus of giggles from her sisters, the angered call of her name by their mother, and the apology her father was making to the poor messenger boy forced to witness his family's dysfunction. She did not slow her pace until she was in her room again, the large door shut firmly behind her.

Rosalyn dropped herself onto her bed with an exaggerated sigh. _Dougal Macintosh this _and _Dougal Macintosh that_. _Dougal, Dougal, Dougal_! It would be one ring of hell if it were just her vacant sisters who were obsessed with the Laird, but it was the whole leeward side of the Isle. Everyone was enamored with him – and he knew it! Worst of all, he was more than aware of the praise lavished upon his undeserving head and he basked in it. The arrogant, selfish, irascible fool.

They only saw the handsome, athletic, only son of the Lord and they all fell in love with that gilded rendering. Never once looking beyond and seeing what a truly rotten brat he was. Rosalyn seethed. If only they knew how highly he thought of himself and how lowly he regarded everyone else.

_Her? Sean, I've not had enough to drink to even consider dancing with her._

Rosalyn exhaled slowly, her dark eyes closed. He'd spent the rest of the evening in a goblet of mead, his hands roaming over every hill and valley of each dance partner, one more vacuous than the next. Each hoping to be the 'lucky lady' to lay the laird.

"Rosalyn!" Her mother's voice was shrill and grating from the other side of the door. "Rosalyn!"

"Yes?" She sighed loudly.

"Open this door, Rosalyn!" Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shuffled slowly across the room.

"Yes, Mamma." She muttered, opening the door.

Rhiannon Brolchain swept into her eldest child's room with the force of a thunderstorm. Her grey eyes crackled with lightning as she regarded her wayward daughter.

"_What_ were you _thinking_?" She asked sharply. "Your abuses in this home are one thing, but your bitterness has gotten away from you. It is an _ugly_ thing and _unbecoming_ and _horribly inappropriate_. I _will not_ tolerate it. You will learn to hold your tongue and keep your peace." Rosalyn met her mother's gaze and saw the pure force of will there. Arguing would do no good. She bowed her head slightly.

"Yes, Mamma." She said quietly.

"In honor of the athletes and the Lords' return a feast will be held in seven days' time. _You will attend_." Rosalyn's dark head shot up to protest, her bow mouth falling open. Rhiannon's gaze kept her silent. "You will attend and you _will_ represent our family. I mean this Rosalyn. You _will_ go and you _will_ be on your best behavior and on behalf of your father, sisters, and me you _will_ pay court to the Lord and his son."

"Mother!" Rosalyn gasped, no less appalled than if her mother had informed her she were to eat a live snake. "Mother, really, you don't mean that. Last time you forced me in his presence it sleeted for three days straight!" Rosalyn protested, but her mother was firm.

"You are a woman now, dear, it is high time you began behaving like an adult. And that includes holding your tongue around those you dislike and minding your temper. Now there is a week until the festivities, I suggest you take the time and get used to the idea of civility." Rhiannon patted her daughter's cheek and kissed her forehead, as if she'd not handed down such a cruel and unusual punishment. And with that she left her eldest girl alone in her room again.

Rosalyn flopped back down onto her bed. _Mind her temper?_ She'd been minding her temper since she had the mind to mind. Bloody weather curse. Controlling ones emotions was the proper thing to do, but it was even more important when a single outburst could cause floods or fires.

It was yet another reason she disliked young Macintosh. Where she had been told from since birth to keep her emotions in check, her feelings at bay and her over all disposition as neutral as possible, Dougal was allowed to hem and haw, scream and cry over any and every little thing. It wasn't fair.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and lay back across her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, counting the rings in the low wooden beams and listening to her sisters' gossip ringing down the hall.

"She is so self-endeared."

"She has to be! She endears herself to no one else!"

_Her? Sean, I've not had enough to drink to even consider dancing with her._

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1 _Montonto_ is both a reference to _Much Ado About Nothing_, in that Beatrice refers to Benedick as Signor Montonto in the first scene of the first act, it is also a fencing term referring to the upward motion of a sword. Thus it is fitting in the inspiration of this fiction being Shakespeare and that Young Macintosh had a thing for his sword.


	2. Chapter 2

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Two

_Aye, I believe in the Brolchain curse. If ye'd seen the whorl of white flakes and heard the roar of wind swirl about Brolchain House on a clear summer morn as I have, ye'd believe it too.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

The banquet hall in Castle Macintosh was fairly bursting at the seams with music, food, and guests making merry. The feast was in full swing when the sisters Brolchain arrived. The walls groaned under the freshest cuts of the season, the tables groaned with food and drink, and under her breath Rosalyn groaned as her sisters rushed to join the throng surrounding young Macintosh. It made his whereabouts easy to distinguish and to avoid, which was what Rosalyn did, crossing the room for a glass of wine, placing herself as far from the herd as she could be.

"And the _bear_ was actually _Queen Elinor_ transformed by an ill-conceived spell!" She had escaped Laird Macintosh's crowd, but his father, the Lord, could draw people in his own way. Over the heads of the courtiers she could see his bare, lean blue painted arms flailing for emphasis. Lord Macintosh was a proud, wiry man, fierce looking and with a temper as wild as his dark hair. He had a charisma, even a charm – if one got past the bluster. He was also a great friend of her father's. She had no love for Dougal Macintosh but Rosalyn did have a soft spot for his Old Man, and in his own way she knew that the Lord enjoyed her as well.

At the end of his tale Macintosh called for music. The hall became a flurry of activity as every woman aged 16 to 61 clamored for a jig or reel with Laird Macintosh and every man lined up to pick off the rejected suitors. Rosalyn drank deeply from her cup and rolled her eyes heavenward as she spotted her sisters in clamoring amongst the horde. Agnes, too young to compete and not fully out in society at age eleven, was standing up with their father and was already in place along the line. Though she had agreed to dance with another Rosalyn could tell by the tilt of her jeweled head her attention was still on Dougal. As if he'd stop everything for Laird Brolchain's youngest daughter.

Nes was perhaps the most flattering combination of their parents. She had been blessed with Thomas Brolchain's height and rosy complexion but Rhiannon Donnan-Brolchain's delicate features and slender beauty. Catriona, Fiona, and Ina had also inherited their mother's sylph figure and porcelain features. They had their father's hair, however; honey colored, thick, and straight. Rosalyn it seemed had received all of the rejected traits. She was on the tall side but with a full, voluptuous figure. Her sisters often joked that it was a shame that of them the one least likely to be a mother was the one most built for breeding. She had her mother's dark coloring but her features were more striking than soft. It had been said she fathered herself as she so resembled Thomas there was no mistaking whose daughter she was.

Rosalyn smirked into her goblet as her middle sisters all failed in their goal. Each of her honey colored siblings was turned form the Laird and forced to settle for another.

"Milady Rosalyn, might I have the honor of your hand in this Dance?" Rosalyn's attention turned from the humorous sight of a most displeased Catriona forced to stand up with the awkward Jamie Fergus, as far down the line from Dougal as a couple could stand, to look at Ian Connolly. Ian was a stocky dark haired lad one or two years older than her. She arched a dark brow at his invitation. Ian was also a great friend of Dougal's, but his smile was kind, so she chose to overlook his connections and accepted his hand.

"Of course, milord."

The moment she and Ian took their place in line, however, Rosalyn regretted her decision. The other couples for their set included Sean MacLean and the sweet but simple Fhay Byrom and Dougal Macintosh, his partner a preening blonde whom Rosalyn neither knew nor cared to know. If the music had not begun she would have run, jilting Ian less ghastly than dancing a set with Dougal Macintosh. But she was trapped. And what was worse the band decided to lead off with a strathspey. Gritting her teeth Rosalyn prayed for strength, serenity, and patience, but she knew that to get through this dance she would need more of all three than even the allfather could give her. Suddenly Ian's smile wasn't so comely.

The dance had started out fine. Rosalyn was actually very proud of herself for that. For the first half of the strathspey she and Ian traded partners with Fhay and Sean, MacLean wasn't her favorite person in the land but he and Ian spent most of the dance in conference. The conversation she had subsequently struck up with Fhay had actually been nice. Rosalyn's usual sarcastic disposition could not rain on the sunshine that was Fhay's outlook on life. It was rather refreshing. The positive energy could not last however as the partners changed.

"…And then the Princess arrived, announcing she and the Queen had had a discussion and they were going to abandon the old ways in favor of starting a new tradition." Dougal was telling his partner, who was hanging on his every word and yet not hearing one of them. "It was decided that the princess as well as the children of the Lords would no longer marry for politics but instead be free to choose their own spouse. It means I am free," He waggled his dark brows at the fair young woman, "to marry for _love._" The girl dissolved on cue into a fit of flirtatious giggles and batting lashes. Rosalyn rolled her eyes. He continued on with his monologue, talking of how a contest was no way to pick a partner anyway since chance could throw the results and the worthy competitor could lose to a less worthy man, citing Laird Dingwall's bull's eye as a prime example. He continued with his own thoughts on choosing a spouse and on the subject of love until Rosalyn could no longer stand it. Witty, pretty, and wise? He wouldn't recognize any of those traits if they danced in front of him wearing not but a tea cozy. And the whole time Ian was lost in his own observations, his gaze on her and occasionally Dougal but his mind far away, Dougal's simpering partner was…simpering, but hardly listening.

"It's a wonder you are still talking, Dougal, no one is listening to you anyway." She finally snapped as his large hand enveloped hers for a turn. He looked down at her through thick dark lashes.

"Why, Lady Disdain, are you yet living?" he replied haughtily. They passed around the backs of their partners and met again, hands twining.

"Is it possible disdain should die when she has to listen to you speak to hear your own voice? I do not think Lady Courtesy could remain civil." She replied tartly. They separated again, barbs pausing momentarily as they took a turn with their original partner. When they met once more he was ready with a retort.

"It seems that only you seem to have trouble being civil, I am loved of all ladies, except for you. I could choose a wife tomorrow and marry if I wanted to, unlike some." His last barb was said lightly but stung deeply. Rosalyn felt the blood in her face and chest get painfully hot. And he continued, "But I won't for though I have many admirers, I do not love any of _them_." Rosalyn's dark head snapped up too look at him and then whipped to look at his partner, who was blissfully unaware of his unkind statement.

"You. Are. An. Ass." She snapped, not even looking at Ian as they took a turn. She continued over her shoulder, "It's a good thing you have such a hard heart, you'd be a miserable suitor and a horrible husband. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than listen to you – or any man - speak of love."

"You needn't worry about a man swearing love to you, when you flex your claws as you do, it will never happen. No man wishes a scratched face on himself; no man willingly dates a shrew." Rosalyn narrowed her storm colored eyes at him. Outside a decidedly unseasonable wind picked up. In the distance thunder rolled.

"If his face looked anything like yours a good scratching couldn't detract any from it." The Laird's strong jaw clenched and he abruptly dropped her hands, stopping in the middle of the set. In his sea green eyes she saw a tempest flair.

"For the love of God!" He exclaimed. "Ian, Venetia, forgive me, but I cannot stand thy Lady's tongue!" He turned sharply on his booted heel and skulked away, cutting a wide swath through the crowd.

"Irascible child!" Rosalyn snapped after him, marching out of the set just as abruptly. Outside wind slammed against the castle like a fist, rattling the windows and shaking the doors.

Snow was beginning to fall as Rosalyn burst out of the hall and into the night. Her mother be damned she could not take another moment in that hall with _him._ A raw wind picked up the hem of her skirt slightly, chilling her ankles and nipping at her toes through her soft shoes.

It was Dougal's fault. She blamed him entirely. He insisted on vexing her. And now it was snowing. Damn him. Rosalyn wrapped her arms around her chest, hands sliding up and down, trying to rub some heat into herself. She crossed the lawn, watching as all the young lovers who had had thought they could have a private moment in the gardens ran back into the crowded halls of Macintosh Castle. She was the only one it seemed to be going outside.

"What are you doing?" Obviously not the _only_ one. Rosalyn whirled around at the sound of Young Macintosh's voice. Large white flakes contrasted with his dark hair and clung to his lashes as he trudged through the wind and snow.

"What are _you_ doing?" She replied harshly, looking him up and down; he wore nothing more than he had had on in the hall – boots, kilt, and no undershirt. He was already losing color in his chest and extremities. What in God's name was he doing outside? "You need to put on a shirt!"

"_You_ need to make it stop!" He replied angrily gesturing to the skies. The Brolchain curse was well known throughout the land, but it was rarely believed – until, of course, the first summer snow.

"I can't!" She snapped, "That's why it's a _curse_! Once it begins _I_ have no control. YOU shouldn't have angered me. This is your fault."

"My fault?" He exclaimed, moving toward her with a growl. "I am not the one with a curse on _my_ pretty head!" She growled and stepped closer to him as well. Thunder rolled. Their eyes locked, her chin raising, his tilting down. They were now so close she could feel the heat leaving his lean chest.

He shivered.

Her eyes drifted down his body, watching the gooseflesh appear, muscles contract. She reached out and ran a hand up and down his arm in a vain attempt to warm him.

"You should go back inside." She told him firmly.

"As should you." The moment they may have shared was shattered. She snatched her hand back.

"Not back with you! I'm going home!"

"Home?!" he shouted reaching for her hand again.

"Yes! I won't stay here a moment longer." Her nostrils flared and a fork of lightning split the sky. She turned on her heel, her skirt snapping behind her, sending snow swirling in her wake.

Brolchain house was not far from the Castle Macintosh. On a clear day one could see the other. It was, however, far from a clear day. The snow was not a full blizzard, yet, but it was consistent. Fluffy flakes had been falling steadily since the strathspey had begun and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. The green of the grass was already covered with an even dusting of white.

"How in the name of the Dagda do you plan on getting home?"1 he called striding after her. She picked up her pace a little and did not turn to look at him as she responded.

"The hack we brought can be pulled with three horses, we came with five. I will ride home."

"Ride?" He scoffed. She would have to do it bareback and in a party dress. It would never work.

"Yes! And failing that I will walk! I will not stay here!" In three great strides he overcame her. Cutting her off and grabbing her upper arms firmly to ensure she came to a complete stop and could not start again. It was over three miles between the castle and her home. The winds picked up making her shiver in his hands; her full bow mouth was turning blue. He stared into her grey eyes, as stormy as the weather, and saw a mad sort of resolve staring back at him.

"It is an hour's walk and the weather is only getting worse. You will freeze before you arrive home. That gown is not warm enough." He tried to sound firm, but gentle, and not at all as panicked at he felt. She struggled against him, but he only gripped her tighter.

"Let go of me!" She growled. "Dougal Macintosh, you let go of me _right now_."

"NO." He replied harshly, "Not until you promise me you will come back to the castle. I can see to it that you have a room as far from my own chambers as humanly possible but I will not allow you to walk home and _die_ from the cold." He pulled her closer for emphasis, jaw tightening, eyes glowing as he looked down at her. Rosalyn's eyes met his straight on.

She was suddenly warm. Far too warm. Her skin was an oppressive, suffocating sort of hot. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. She needed to get away. Her only thought was escape. She had to get away. Far away. Right away.

She stomped as hard as she could on his foot. The shock of her action, rather than the pain, making him release her arms. Seizing the moment she turned on her heel and ran.

"Rosalyn!" She set her jaw more firmly and picked up the hem of her gown, quickening her pace she marched with determination. She didn't care that the stables were in the opposite direction of where she was heading. She didn't care that she wasn't actually walking towards her home. She only cared that she put as much distance between herself and Dougal Macintosh as she possibly could. It was too much. It was all too much.

"Rosalyn!" He called again. She could hear his large feet crunching over the snow as he followed her. She picked up her pace, ducking into the wood that surrounded the castle. She needed to be alone. She just needed for him to leave her alone. She could feel the blood pumping through her, it was hot in her ears, and in her face, and in her breast. She took a hard left, hoping that she could double back, avoiding the wretchedly persistent heir of Macintosh and heading back towards her final destination – home. She shivered as the shrill wind whipped between the trees. Rosalyn had cold blood, while her sisters and mother could not abide chilly weather she felt herself fortified by the crisp bite in the air. But cold blood only went so far and now even she was beginning to feel the bitterness seeping into her bones.

"Rosalyn!" he called a third time, closer now. She whirled around to face him.

"Leave me alone!" She screamed at him, voice cracking. The pieces flew on the icy wind, scattering in the wood between them. "Stop it! Leave me alone! Dougal – Just lea-WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!" Snow dumped down on them as if she had upended a bucket. She was losing control of her emotions, losing control of her control. And the weather did not scare her as much as her feelings did.

"Why?!" He shouted back. "WHY? BECAUSE YOU ARE BEING A BLOODY IDIOT!" He marched towards her. If her emotions threw off snow and ice when they were roused he was throwing off steam and fire, she could see a blaze in his eyes, it growing ever larger with every step toward her.

"If you won't be reasonable and take care of yourself then I will. You are behaving like a damn _child_. A child Rosalyn! It is too cold to be out here! You need to come inside and warm up before you catch your death. This is the stupidest, most immature, irrational thing I've ever seen you do! If I wasn't out here with you right now I would not believe you of all the women in Scotland would be so bloody foolishly!" He towered over her, eyes flaming, his presence overwhelming her.

Rosalyn had seen him throw tantrums over the years. She had seen him wail with sadness, scream with anger, she'd watched him pout to get his way and then gloat once the others had capitulated. Rosalyn had never seen him as he was now. He was furious. It was a living thing, growing deep inside of him and clawing its way out through his words, through his burning gaze, through the flair of his nostrils. She could feel his energy, this fury, coming off of him like waves. Suddenly she was trembling with something other than cold. She was hot again. She was hot and she was cold. It was a heady thing, a confusing one as well. She looked up at him, too lost to do anything else. He continued.

"I know you don't like me but right now I could care less! Just come back with me to the castle and once you are with your father and sisters I promise you will not see me again while you are in my home. But I swear to God, if you do not come with me now I will take you back by force." Under his breath he added, "The Princess was easier to deal with and she turned her mother in a bleedin' bear."

His gaze held hers. She shivered again. It broke the spell that was his ultramarine gaze. She looked around her, aware of herself for the first time since stepping outside.

"Dougal, where are we?"

* * *

1 The Dagda is a powerful father-figure and protector in Celtic mythology. He strikes me a bit like Zeus or Jupiter for those of you more familiar with the classical pantheon.


	3. Chapter 3

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Three

_Beware, wee loves, the will o' the wisps._ _The little lights dancing on the horizon. They whisper to you, promising the realization of your dreams. The wisps will lead you to your fate. They will lead you to your fate weather you are ready for it or not.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"Dougal, where are we?"

The question made him blink. He shook his head, taken aback for a moment. Then, like her, he looked around. His hands still held her shoulders, keeping their bodies close. His anger was fading; she was so close she could feel the energy dissipate into the air. After a long moment he let go of her. If possible she felt colder. In place he turned, taking in all that was around him, a large hand raking through his dark hair.

"I…uh…um…I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? These are your woods, you should know them!" She exclaimed Rosalyn too turned around, looking for a landmark. All she saw was trees and snow.

"In case you haven't noticed, you've done a bit of a number on everything." He retorted sharply, panic lacing into his voice. His posture. His eyes. His gaze was wide when she met it, and utterly bewildered. Rosalyn chewed her lip. It was really, really cold.

"Our footprints! We can retrace our steps and get out of here." She brushed past him with new purpose, her eyes focused keenly on the ground.

"Well shit." After a brief, intense trek their trail went cold – literally- as new fallen snow obscured and covered their prints. Shivering Rosalyn looked up at Dougal.

"Do you know where we are now?" She asked hopefully. He swallowed thickly and shook his head.

"No."

"Shit." Beside her she could feel Dougal shaking. His kilt had even less fabric than her gown. Concerned she turned to him; the look on his face told her that the chill was not causing his tremors. Dougal Macintosh was … afraid. This realization caught her off guard.

"Dougal?" she said, touching his arm hesitantly. Behind him something caught her attention. It was a faint whimper. A high pitched moan accompanied by a faint glowing blue light. It was a wisp.

Rosalyn had never given much credit to the stories of the will o' the wisps, ironic she would scoff when she of all people knew of the magic in the world. She was willing to believe now.

"Come on!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and dragging him in the direction of the wisp.

"Where are we – what…" he began, then he too saw the bright blue light. He stopped dead, holding her back firmly.

"Oh no." he said, "no no no no no. I am not following those things, absolutely not."

"Why not? They lead you to your fate, and I dunno about you, but I don't think my fate involves dying from exposure in the woods!"

"The last time someone followed the will o' the wisps I had to fight a bear!"

"You keep going on about that!" She took his hand again forcefully.

"It was Mor'du!"

"Fine! If I promise not to ask a witch for a spell will you come on? I can't feel my feet and the only color you've got is painted on!" Dougal Macintosh vowed never to underestimate the eldest Brolchain daughter again. Not only had she brought a blizzard down on his head but she now was full on dragging him after the wisps.

They followed the trail as it twisted and turned through the trees. Rosalyn was beginning to regret her decision to follow the wisps when finally a clearing came into view, and as if on cue the will o' the wisps disappeared. Rosalyn looked up at Dougal, in the clearing she could just make out a cabin. He looked at the structure and then back to her, his large hand tightening around hers slightly as he moved to stand more in front of her; creating a barrier with his body between her and the home.

The cabin was slung low to the ground, built back into the trees. The roof hung down over the front like a cap. As they approached Rosalyn noted the lack of smoke coming from the chimney. The tiny wood abode appeared to be empty. She wasn't sure if that was a comfort to her or not. Dougal kept her close to his side as they approached. She could feel him tense and then relax. She looked up at him through her dark lashes. He recognized where they were. She could see it in his face.

"This is my family's hunting cabin!" He exclaimed, rushing to the door. His hand was still firm on hers; it was his turn now to do the dragging.

The door was locked but Dougal gave it the shoulder and it eventually gave, the sound of splitting wood informing the wintery air he'd put the lock through the frame. He ushered her inside with a large hand on the small of her back.

The interior of the cabin was small and sparse. It was one room with a large fireplace dominating the wall opposite the door. An exceptionally large bed (she was generous with the term, it appeared to be more like a straw mat on a platform with a blanket) took up most of the left portion of the room. A sideboard, table, and chairs were along the right. In the middle of the room, before the fireplace was a thick sheepskin rug. Dougal closed the door, it now hung crooked on its hinges. He rubbed his shoulder gingerly as he crossed to the fireplace.

"S-so, wh-what now?" She asked as he bent to build a fire in the hearth. Her silver tongue was suddenly clay.

"We are both too cold to return to the castle tonight. It's not far but the sun has set and it's still snowing." She could hear his teeth chattering. Around the new gaps in the door wind whistled. "I say we warm up, spend the night and first light we see how much damage you cased and if we can even get home." She hated to agree with him but for once he made sense.

"I am pained to say it, but I agree." Over his shoulder Dougal stared at her. She shivered. It had to be the wind through the door.

"Look, I appreciate you breaking and entering and all, but that door is going to bring in a draft like none other." She glared at the door for a moment, thinking. Behind her Dougal had gotten the fire to light.

"Nails." She announced after a long moment. "Do you have a hammer and nails in here?" she asked bending to weigh the rug in her hands. It was good and thick with a lining on the back.

"Why would we have nails?" he replied adding wood to the new blaze. She held up a corner of the rug.

"We can hang this over the door and it will block the wind since you broke the door."

"I got us in here didn't I?" His retort was sharp.

"Yes you did but it's drafty and if the wind gets stronger the fire may not stay lit." He glared at her, she glared back. Wind whistled between them to ruffle the flames. He sighed.

"I am pained to say it, but you're right." He turned to the sideboard. "I'll see what I can find."

"Thank you."

He did not find any nails or tacks but did come up with an almost alarming number of very large knives.

"It's a _hunting_ cabin." He told her at the cock of her eyebrow.

"They will do, I hope." She said, taking a blade about as long as her hand and turning towards the door. It was the first time, she realized, they had gone longer than five minutes without an argument.

Rosalyn was tall for her family, but even on her tip toes she still could not both hold the rug and stab the knife deep enough into the wood above the door to make the material hold. Not that she didn't try. Somewhere around her fourth failed attempt she felt him, his sturdy frame so close, but not actually touching her back as he took the knife from her hand. He was nearly a head taller than she and it was to his advantage as he took the knife from her and easily stuck it into the wood above the door the rug hanging from it.

"You hold it up, I'll stab it." His voice rumbled in her ear, his head was dipped down and she could feel his breath on her cheek. She felt herself shiver but she was everything but cold. Her voice was nowhere to found, she could not but nod and hold the rug. The wool stuck uncomfortably to her sweaty palms. Five knives later she rocked back off of her toes and back into his chest, his hands lowered and rested on her hips.

She didn't breath. She couldn't. Her lungs had stopped functioning but her heart was thundering in her chest, she could hear it in her ears and feel it pounding in her veins. She was suddenly very warm and a little light headed.

She had to get away.

As suddenly as the peace settled over her she bolted, breaking out of his embrace and fleeing to the opposite side of the room. She went and stood next to the fireplace, staring into the flames, trying to get her head back down from the ceiling and her heart rate back to normal. She shivered again, from cold this time. It was then she realized her dress was soaked from nearly her waist to the tips of her toes. There was no way she would thaw if she was never dry.

She needed to get out of this dress, she realized. She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. Casting an eye around she looked for something to wear to cover her chemise and corset when she hung up her overdress. Her storm grey eyes fell on the bed and the quilt. With resolve she crossed to the bed and threw the quilt over her head.

"What are you doing?" Dougal asked drolly. Rosalyn swore under her breath. She had no idea. Yes, he couldn't see anything, but she couldn't see anything either. Frustrated she threw the blanket off of her head.

"My dress is soaked. I can't get warm wearing it while it's still wet." She said reaching behind her, trying to find the laces of her dress.

"S-so y-you're going to take your dress offf?" Her fingers couldn't quite reach the laces, at least not without dislocating her shoulder.

"I'm going to try." She said, her tongue sticking out as she reached again for the laces. "No, I can't reach them." Her heart-shaped chin dropped to her chest. She took a few deep breaths and looked back at her life to try and identify what she had done to deserve such humiliation. She couldn't believe she was about to ask what she was about to ask, but every moment she spent in the gown the colder she felt. The more suffocated she felt as the material caught and clung to her heavily.

"Dougal," She said so softly he wasn't sure he had heard her, "would you undo my laces?"

"What?" The bastard was going to make her ask again.

"I cannot untie the back lacing of my dress. One of my ladies maids helped me into it and I need help getting out of it." She drew her thick ponytail over her shoulder so the back of her dress was visible, the laces crossing tightly down her back, following in the line of her spine, the zig and the zag getting closer and closer together until it ended in a bow at the swell of her behind.

"Come closer to the light, I need to see what you are asking me to do." He said, gently guiding her closer to the fireplace. "You want me to do what now?" Rosalyn clenched her hands into fists. She took another deep breath.

"I want you to untie my dress. You should certainly know how to do that." Her tone was intentionally cutting. His nervousness and questions was fraying her patience and making her uneasy. She almost jumped out of her skin when she felt his fingers gently tug on the knot of her dress. The bottom fell out of her stomach and butterflies poured out as she felt his hands gently loosen each lace, touch ghosting up her body.

An eternity passed.

"I've never actually unlaced a woman's dress before." He said quietly as he pulled the ribbon from the hooks.

"Oh?" she said archly.

"Yes, I have no sisters and my mother has ladies maids and my father to help her with her dressing, I have never had a reason or an occasion to do such a thing." She looked over her shoulder at him; his blue eyes were focused intently on the task at hand, his bangs falling in front of his face as he studied her.

"I would have thought you would have had plenty of opportunities what with all the girls practically ripping their bodices open at your feet. Do your conquests simply come to you in outfits less complicated?" He looked up at her sharply, the firelight dancing in his oceanic eyes. There was emotion there but she did not know which one. It was sad, hurt almost. But as soon as she saw it it disappeared, chased away by a firmly clenched jaw and the flair of his nostrils.

"I have no conquests, I told you though I am loved of all ladies, except for you; I do not love any of _them._"

"What does love have to do with it? From what I understand very little, especially in the case of most boys your age." He had reached the top of her dress. His fingers brushed the skin there and she could feel that touch go through her body like lightning. She inhaled sharply. It had taken her breath away.

"Most boys, but not all." He said. He was standing so close, his hand remaining on her shoulder. "For me love has everything to do with it." He looked down at her seriously. She couldn't help but look at his lips. They were right there. So close, right before her eyes. She could smell him, feel his heat and his breath, she was fairly certain she could hear his heart. That or it was hers. Either way it was beating faster than a horserace.

"Your lips are blue." She said. The moment was over. She turned to him fully, looking up into his face. In the firelight she couldn't see perfectly, but she could see well enough. His color was not returning as it should. That proud pout was still tinted purple.

She touched his chest, his neck and his cheek and although she burned his actual skin was like ice. His lips were blue and his face pale, pale white. She then brushed past him, moving to one of the chairs. She pulled the wooden seat from the table to in front of the fire.

"Wrap up." She pointed to the mussed blanket, her dress now loose slid down her arm, "And sit. I'll make us some tea." She turned to the sideboard, the back of her dress completely open and sliding down her body. "You do have tea, don't you?"

Dougal groaned. To get through the night with Rosalyn Brolchain in not but her skivvies he was going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.


	4. Chapter 4

A Merry War

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

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Chapter Four

_The word whisky comes from the Gaelic word _uisge beatha_ meaning 'water of life'. I, however, have always been of the opinion that it should mean water of truth.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

Dougal groaned. To get through the night with Rosalyn Brolchain in not but her skivvies he was going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.

"We should but if it's all the same to you I am going to need something stronger." He said approaching the sideboard as well, ignoring with all his might the way she bent at the waist to peer into the cabinets.

"What's stronger than tea?" She asked dumbly, turning her head and looking at him through the curtain of her dark hair. He knelt and out of the very bottom of the last cupboard pulled a stoneware jug.

"Oh." She turned back to her own quest and found the kettle and tea tin. "Well, I am going to stick to tea." Rosalyn said. She left the tea tin sitting atop the sideboard and turned to the door. She did not have to even fully set foot outside of the cabin to find enough snow to fill the cast iron pot. Dougal watched as the shut the door as firmly as the broken latch allowed her and smoothed the rug back into place. She was completely unaware of herself, so focused on the mundane task of preparing a cup of tea. She paid no attention to how the majority of her raven hair was now flying about around her instead of held back by the black velvet band. And when she tired of her scarlet gown slipping down and impeding her movements she simply shucked it.

He could feel his eyes grow wide as saucers as she allowed her gown to slip down her body, revealing the gauzy white material of her chemise and the stiff structure of her corset. _Michty me_ Dougal thought _She's bloody beautiful_. He'd always known she was pretty. He'd always found her attractive, her figure pleasing in the fashions of the day, but he'd not known the beauty that was hidden under those dresses. The soft curve of her hip, the narrowness of her waist, only emphasized by the boning and lacing of her corset. He could make out the faint outline of her legs through the gauzy skirt that ended a few inches above her ankles. He'd not thought it possible to be aroused by the joint connecting foot to leg, but he was. It was the most intimate picture he'd seen of a woman who'd not birthed him. Closing his eyes tightly he uncorked the jar and took a long drag.

Rosalyn watched as Dougal took a drink straight from the jar of Loch Lomond, he looked almost pained. His eyes were shut tightly and he was breathing very forcefully through her nose. She had no idea what his problem was, though she was sure he had one. He was probably upset that he was stuck here with her instead of at his home with his fan club. She was certainly vexed by the evening and the company, but she was going to handle that with grace and dignity. She'd caused enough trouble for one night. Rosalyn draped her dress over the back of the other chair in the little hut and drew it closer to the fire as well. It was a little weird wearing nothing but her underthings somewhere other than her room with someone other than her mother, sisters, or maid Iona. But it was also a little liberating. And she knew very well that Dougal was no more interested in her than he was interested in Mor'du so she pushed the awkwardness from her mind.

Dougal sat in the chair she directed him to, his elbows on his knees, arms loose, the bottle dangling from his right hand as he stared into the flames. She sighed. He had listened when she told him to sit but he'd not put on any further layers from his kilt. Shaking her dark head she left the snow to boil and retrieved the quilt from the large bed. Wordlessly she draped it over his shoulders. He sat up straight and looked at her. She looked back wordlessly, and then returned her attention to the tea.

Silence hung thick in the space between them like a blanket of smoke. It was choking. She sipped her tea and he drank his _uisge beatha_ and the wind howled outside.

"So where exactly are we?" She finally asked, it was the safest thing she could think of to say.

"Not far from Macintosh Castle, maybe a mile, mile and a half from home." He shrugged. His color was looking better, his lips were back to their natural petal pink instead of the blue they were earlier.

"Why build so close to the castle? Surely it would be just as easy to return to the stables if you made it this far." She thought of her own father's hunting cabin as far from the house as his lands stretched.

"Yeah, it's not really just for hunting." Rosalyn looked over at the young Laird. His voice was warm and his posture relaxed. The jar of whisky rested on his knee and the quilt was now wrapped more securely around his chest, waist, and legs.

"Oh?"

"Nah, it's more just a place for me and my Dad to hide out, avoid mum for a while." He gave her a lazy smile, one born out of true amusement and a bit of malt. It was the first time she'd seen him genuinely smile. Not pose. Not smirk. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He actually was kind of cute Rosalyn realized to her horror. She thought Dougal Macintosh was cute when he smiled.

"It's our hideout." He added.

"I've always liked your mother. She's very nice." Lady Macintosh had always been kind to her. As Lord Macintosh was friends with her father, Calleigh Macintosh was friends with Rosalyn's mother. It was truly only Dougal Macintosh with whom Rosalyn took issue.

"Oh, she is." Dougal agreed, "It's just, she really wanted a little girl as well as a son an heir. And instead she just got me." There was sadness in his voice she'd never heard before. "Sometimes she tries to compensate and teach me how to do that daughter stuff."

The image of young Dougal, his long hair in pigtails sitting at his mother's feet with an embroidery hoop poled into her mind and Rosalyn had to cover her laugh with a cough. For his part Dougal saw no humor in it, in face he seemed morose.

"I feel bad for avoiding her but it just gets to be a bit much."

"Next time she gets lonely for female company instead of running away send her to Brolchain House, I am sure my mother would willingly part with one of us for a few hours." The smile he gave her was grim.

"I don't think that would help."

"I thought you said she wanted a daughter." He shook his dark head.

"More than anything she and my father wanted a large family. Between the two I have ten Aunts and Uncles and more cousins than I can name. They were supposed to have five kids, that's what they wanted. Instead they had me and only me."

All of the air had been sucked from the room. Rosalyn had no idea how to react. Gone was arrogant Dougal, Bold Dougal, Confident Dougal. Instead this was a defeated little boy who looked like Dougal.

"Your parents love you, nay, they adore you. You can't take responsibility for your lack of siblings any more than I can for my abundance."

"It's not that. When I was born my mother couldn't walk – I did that to her. Her right leg wouldn't work, for nearly a year, she could hardly stand. My father was devastated. My birth nearly killed my mom and that nearly killed my dad and it killed their plans for a large family."

It was like she was seeing him for the first time; she had never truly looked at him until that moment, never seen beyond the carefully crafted exterior. The spoiled confidence she was used to was the play acting of a little boy, foolishly guilty about circumstances beyond his control who was trying to compensate. He wanted to be perfect in every way to make up for the siblings he felt he should have. He was lost and he was lonely, desperate to please his parents and too hard on himself to see that he already had. It was twisted. It made no sense. But it explained everything. Rosalyn reached out and touched his quilt clad thigh.

"Dougal your parents adore you. Things might not have gone according to their original plan but I do not think for a moment they would trade you and their life now for a whole gaggle of children." He looked down at her hand and then up at her. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. It failed, fading more into a gloomy grin.

"Besides, having a large family isn't all it's cracked up to be. I have four sisters, how often I wish I had none." She drew her hand back and stared into the flames with the same fascination Dougal had had earlier. It was his turn to take the study, hers to be the subject. She sighed. It would only be a matter of time before he asked.

"It's not that my parents love me any less. They love us all equally, with all of their hearts. I truly believe that they do." She always loved beating him to the punch. "But five girls with a weather curse, my home, as you can imagine can be quite chaotic." She sipped the cold dregs of her tea with a grimace.

"I was supposed to be the example for my sisters. Show them the proper way – maintain control, keep my head because I knew better. I took that seriously – I take that seriously." The wind outside blew ironically. "I was also already a bit bookish, born quiet my father says. Silent and stubborn. It made me – makes me an odd duck I guess. I am nothing like Catriona or Fiona or Ina. Nes insn't old enough to be like someone, but when she is I probably won't be like her either. I live in a house full of women and I am still alone." She rarely dwelled on this, let alone express it. She never let on, let someone in to know how unwelcome her middle sisters made her feel in her own house. She hated the weakness. She hated that she could feel Dougal's aquamarine gaze on her skin. After a deep breath she met his eye.

"Can I try some of that?" She asked pointing to the jug in his hand. He blinked.

"Um… uh…" He faltered. "Have you ever had whisky before?"

"No," She shook her dark head. "But I've never told anyone about my sisters and I certainly have never sat in my corset with a man before. Might as well make it a night of firsts." His eyes grew wider, cheeks blushing a faint pink. She crossed her arms and set her jaw.

"Look, I just got done talking to you and keeping my temper in check. I think I deserve a drink." That successfully destroyed any intimacy or amenity they had built. He rolled his eyes and handed her the jug.

"That should not be considered a success worthy of spirits." Rosalyn rolled her eyes this time and took a long swig from the jug.

And choked.

It was like drinking fire. Fire which tasted exactly as it smelled, only stronger. Her eyes watered, she pounded her chest. Dougal was laughing at her.

She wanted to be angry with him. He was laughing at her. She hated when he laughed at her, when anyone laughed at her. Yet, as whisky dripped down her chin she couldn't keep a straight face. Her giggles started low and then started to grow and soon they were both laughing hysterically and unable to stop.

She took another drink from the bottle, with more reserve than last time and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Well, whatdaya think of the whisky?" his brogue was rich and sweet. Warm and mellow. Rosalyn felt warm and mellow. She passed him back the jug.

"It's stronger than tea." She said with a little hiccup. "But not bad."

"So," she said, a little less articulately than usual. They had passed the time trading drafts from the whisky jug and groping to find topics of conversation that would not cause an argument. It got surprisingly easy the more she had to drink.

"So, have I had enough to start blaming what I say and what I do on the devil that is whisky?"

"Considering I grew up with this stuff and you didn't I would say that you could have blamed the grog a while ago." She shoved his shoulder sloppily. They had rearranged themselves during the conversation to get as comfortable as possible with the sparse furniture. They were sitting side by side in their straight back chairs, feet propped on a third; his legs, significantly longer than hers sticking out the back.

"You're hic, telling me that I'm completely gubbed and you're not even merry?" he laughed. It was a nice laugh she had decided. She'd heard it more in the last few hours than in all of her nineteen years.

"I wouldn't go that far. I mean, yes, you're utterly phalanxed, but I am very merry indeed. Don't you worry your pretty head about that." He had himself another dram. The bottle was nearly empty. He offered her another drag but she refused, shaking her dark head.

"You've gotten me liquored up enough, thankyoueverymuch-"

"You asked for some-"

"- and here I was about to say something nice. But now I'm not going to."

"You? Say something nice? What? What were you going to say? Tell me." He scooted into her personal space teasingly. "Tell me. Tell me." She put her pert nose in the air haughtily.

"No." She said. "I won't It's not true anymore."

"Tell me." He whined. His face was so close to the side of hers now that his words tousled the hair hanging loose about her face. She pulled a face; centering her palm on his face she pushed him away from her with a laugh. There was no malice in the gesture, a complete turnaround from how she would have reacted just hours before.

"Fine." She yawned. "I was going to say that this is the longest we've ever been in each other's company where we have not gotten angry with one another. It's novel. I kind of like it." The look he was giving her, his expression was soft in the fire light. It was too much. She was feeling warm again. "You see it's the whisky talking!" she added the last part quickly and shifted slightly in her seat, sinking down against the backrest. She wanted to hide under the quilt in her lap. Not arguing was strange and uncomfortable for her now.

"I've never been angry with you." He told her softly. Rosalyn's grey eyes grew wide as she looked at him.

"Yes you have! You storm off or you shout and say harsh things and then you storm off. You drive me mad and I drive you mad."

"Yes, I storm off. Yes, I yell. But I am never truly angry. I cannot stay angry with you." He said.

"Well, you do a very good impression of being." She replied. "And for the record, when I storm off I am actually angry with you. And I can stay mad."

"Oh, I am well aware of that. I never understood why I, of all the men in Scotland, vex you so. Sean and Ian can be just as annoying as I and yet not a snowflake falls in their name."

"You honestly don't know why? I'm surprised you even care, Dougal. You so rarely want my company."

"Are you insane? I don't want to bring down a blizzard. I think tonight is the perfect example of why we are so rarely together." He replied gesturing to the door.

"_Her? Sean, I've not had enough to drink to even consider dancing with her._" She parroted back to him those hateful words she had overheard. Her impression of him was not perfect but good enough to be recognized. He looked as if she had slapped him.

"You never wanted to spend time in my company, I am not worthy of your over inflated opinion of yourself. Plain, little Rosalyn, the bookish brown girl isn't good enough for you, unless you wish to break some wits at her expense." She said these things with a resigned voice. She was tired and sad. Too tired and sad to be angry.

For a moment she had thought that this easy conversation, the laughter was because he enjoyed her company. She now remembered how little he thought of her. This whole evening was a symptom of having no one else to speak to, no one else to impress. She closed her eyes sadly.

"It was not as it sounded." He said softly.

"I think it was. I understand exactly what it sounded like. I heard it quite clearly - you were standing rather close. If it was to be a secret you should have kept your distance."

"No, you did not understand it. I have never thought you were not pretty, quite the opposite in fact. I think you're beautiful. You are also terrifying."

"Terrifying?" She repeated. She had wanted to open her eyes, to give him a look that would let him know in unequivocal terms how stupid he was. Dougal Macintosh was nearly a full head taller than she and battle trained. He was the son of the most powerful man in the area. She was but one of five daughters, she had no power – physically or politically – that could compete with him.

She wanted to open her eyes but found she could not. The day and the liquor had finally caught up to her. Suddenly Rosalyn was very weary.

"Yes! You mock every suitor out of himself. You put down everyone, crush them under your heel rather than allow them to get close to you. To get to know you. I had not had enough to drink that night, I thought I had, but you gave me such a look I knew that I still did not have the courage to face your icy façade." Dougal felt the words come from within him like the rains; he could no more stop them from being heard than he could stop a flood. And he really needed to stop himself. If he didn't his greatest secret would be spilled before her so that she may stomp all over it.

He closed his eyes and plunged on, unable to stop himself. He was angry he realized. She just assumed he was a cad and as shallow as her sisters yet she spent her time speaking daggers and firing paper bullets of the brain at anything in her path. She let no one in, no one remotely close and then hated him for being intimidated?

"If you weren't so full of yourself," He continued his voice rising, "and did not spend your time trying to find ways to cut every person who tried to get near you, you'd see that I actually, strangely enough like you." His voice dropped, as he added, too quietly to be heard by anyone but his heart, "I love you. I have for a while."

Dougal Macintosh braced himself for an onslaught. One that did not come. Slowly he opened his eyes; cautiously he looked over at the uncharacteristically silent. Her dark head was tilted back against the chair; it was dropped to one side, ear resting close to her shoulder. Her dark eyes were shut peacefully behind her thick lashes and her small bow mouth was parted slightly. She had fallen asleep. Dougal sighed. At least he was spared some humiliation.

The fire was lower in the grate, it had burned itself down as they had been talking and the room was chilly. It was late he realized. Cautiously, as not to jostle the sleeping beauty beside him Dougal untangled himself from the quilt around his waist and from the chair his feet were propped on. He stood and stretched, they had been sitting and talking so long he had gone stiff. His joints popped as he stretched his arms over his head and tottered to the fire. His legs had half fallen asleep, just as Rosalyn had.

He stoked the flames into blazing life again and added more wood so that the warmth might last until morning. Satisfied the hearth would not go cold while he slept he turned again to Rosalyn. She was so peaceful in sleep. Quiet and beautiful. Unable to help himself he took the few steps that brought him close to her and hesitantly tucked the dark lock that fell across her pale features back behind her ear. She did not stir and under his calloused fingers her skin felt like heaven. A little braver he caressed her cheek. She turned slightly to his hand but remained fast asleep.

Her neck would be screaming if he left her to sleep in the chair. And if she were in pain he would feel it. He was perhaps not as jaiked up as she but the whisky had still made him bold. Carefully he slid one arm under her legs, the other he wrapped around her back. She had a solid weight, but it felt right in his arms as he lifted her from the chair and turned slowly to look at the bed.

A single bed. It was perhaps the size of Scotland herself but that did not matter. He was going to be sharing a bed with Rosalyn Brolchain. He was going to die, but he was going to die a happy man. She turned slightly in his arms as he carried her across the room, the slope of her perfect nose resting against his neck. He almost dropped her from the jolt of intimacy from her action. Certainly she could not remain asleep, not with his heart thundering like a thousand Clydesdales in his throat. But she did, sighing slightly in her sleep.

Carefully he laid her on the bed. She rolled into the pillows easily and buried her face into their softness. He had not woken her. He smiled and turned to collect the blankets they had stripped from the mattress earlier. He tucked the quilt she had been using around her shoulders tightly then moved to the farthest edge of the bed from her. He wrapped himself tightly in his blanket and lay down. He was worried that he would not remain on his side of the bed. He was worried that he would remain awake all night and he was worried that he would fall asleep and miss this moment for it would be the only time in his life he would be able to be with her.

For all of his worry and all of his thoughts it did not take ten minutes from the time Dougal Macintosh sat his dark head on the pillow for him to drift off into a very happy dream.

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_Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for reading, following, and favorite-ing this little tale, you've made me feel very special. Extra special thanks to BoleynGirl13, who has listened to me complain, whine, and worry with unfailing grace._

_In response to Ms. Random Review, I am glad you won't hold the lack of accents in this against me, I have no ear for writing or imitating accents so I thought it best not to butcher the dialogue with my horrid Scottish. As for the Brolchain curse, I'm glad it sparked your interest! Long ago, before the kingdom was unified the Brolchain family angered a white witch with their capricious, dramatic temper. Because of their ancestors inability to mind their anger every child born with the clan name Brolchain must learn to control their anger or risk destroying their land with winds, rains, snow, and scorching heat. Every Brolchain brings about extreme weather but some members have signature storms; Rosalyn's happens to be snow, ice, and cold temperatures._


	5. Chapter 5

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

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Chapter Five

_There is an old saying in these parts; if you don't like the weather wait a few hours, it'll change.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

Rosalyn came into consciousness slowly, lazily. She'd not slept so soundly in years, nor had dreams as good as the ones she had had last night. She was warm and relaxed; if she could she would spend all day just as she was. Smiling she burrowed her nose deeper into her pillow. It smelled wonderful – like wood smoke, apples and musk. The mattress was firm and rose and fell with a steady, peaceful rhythm. It dropped kisses on her dark crown and murmured sleepy endearments into her hair as the blankets wrapped protectively around her.

Musk…

Rising and falling…

Those were lips…

Memories of last night filtered into her sleepy brain. The dance. The storm. The whisky.

The company.

Suddenly she had a headache. She wanted to scream, but the mere thought of a loud, shrill sound made her head pound and her stomach turn. Instead she tried to turn away, retreat as far as possible to the furthest corner of the bed. Only she could not. Every movement Rosalyn made Dougal held fast. His lean arms were stronger than she thought and they held her to him like iron fetters. He whispered into her hair nonsense and endearments. When she felt his lips ghost her crown again she knew what she had to do. Her right arm was not under her own power, it was trapped beneath them both, but her left arm was still her own. She flung it up over her head, biffing him squarely in the nose as she turned over forcefully. Her victory did not, however, mollify her head.

It was early yet and the room was only partially bathed in light but the dim glow of the narrow windows was still bright enough to make her storm grey eyes water in pain when she opened them. On the other side of the bed she could feel Dougal stirring, his shifting weight jostling the mattress and making her head pound. Against her will a thin, pitiful sound escaped her lips.

"Rosalyn? Are you alright?" Dougal's voice was concerned, his tone edged with sleep. She could feel the bed dip again as he reached across the space between them to touch her shoulder. His hand was gentle, his tone was soft, and the movement of the mattress slight, but it was still too much for her. She felt nauseous.

"Dougal, speak in small letters." She groaned. Her mouth tasted funny. He fell silent, his large hand rubbing her shoulder and back with gentle circles. For a long moment they remained this way. Dougal offering comfort and Rosalyn, for once, accepting it.

He then slipped away. She felt suddenly cold and the tense pain of her headache increased.

"Rosalyn, _Mo muirnín_, can you sit up for me please?"1 His hand covered hers on the pillow. "You need to drink some water, it will make you feel better." Slowly she opened her eyes, everything was blurry at first. Eventually, however, he came into focus. Dougal was kneeling by the bed, his long hair dishelved, a mug in his hand. His blue eyes looked firmly into hers.

"Please, _A ghrá geal,_ you need to drink water, it will help."2

Slowly Rosalyn pushed herself upright, sitting with her back against the headboard. The room was spinning.

"What happened?" She asked as he pressed the mug into her hands.

"You got your first taste of whisky last night. This is its revenge." He told her standing.

"I feel like I've been hit over the head with your father's flail." The quilt was still wrapped around him like a dress, it drug behind as he went to stoke the fire.

"That'll happen." He commented, "Drink your water." He added, sounding more like a father instead of his usual childish ways. Rolling her eyes hurt too much so, for once, Rosalyn did what she was told. He crouched in front of the sideboard as she sipped her water, watching as the muscles of his back flexed while he pawed through the cabinets' dearth content. The water didn't really help her head but it did wash the taste of last night from her mouth.

After some time Dougal stood, having found what he was looking for. In his large hand was a tin of crackers. He tossed the lid onto the table with a clang that made her wince and shuffled back to her side. The blanket he had wrapped around him last night slipped down his chest, exposing him to her in a way that was by far more intimate than it truly was. She should be unaffected by his chest, she had seen it often in nearly twenty years. Indeed a rarer sight would be of Dougal - or any Macintosh Clansmen for that matter – in a shirt. But as the worn quilt slipped down his chest slowly revealing the hard planes beneath it like the curtain rising on a play Rosalyn found she could not look away. Her head pounded as if there was a pipe and drum corps in her brain but as the swell of his pectoral came into view, followed by the firm, taught skin of his upper abdomen it faded for a moment. Dougal Macintosh was actually a very attractive man. Damn him. She wished she could deny it but as she grew warm all over she knew she could not. The heat of her blush brought her out of her daze and she screwed her eyes shut. She prayed she'd not been found out.

"Here" he said, she could feel the bed dipping at her feet, "You need to eat something. Water and bread will help." The thought of eating turned her scarlet blush green with nausea. "I know, the idea isn't appealing, but trust me water, food, and a nap will put you to rights. I've seen it work many a time." Slowly she opened her eyes. The Laird Macintosh was sitting at her feet offering her hardtack with a small smile.

"Oh?" she asked, a bit breathy. The quilt was now around his middle. If two days ago someone would have told her that Dougal Macintosh would be sitting on the bed she was in, hair mussed, wrapped in a quilt, offering her food and she wouldn't want to bludgeon him to death with a heavy object she would have laughed manically.

Well, here she was and there he was.

And instead of beating him with the tin she was accepting a cracker.

"You might be surprised but Ian, Sean, and I were pretty wild once upon a time." She did roll her eyes that time. "Sean's a bit of a lush." He added with a chuckle.

"Right." Nearly every banquet she could remember Dougal had had a never empty goblet in one hand and a woman on the other. He blushed faintly under her eye. She ate another cracker.

Rosalyn polished off most of the hard bread at his urging and in the end did feel better. A bit better anyway. He sat at her feet as they ate (she ate) and quietly talked. Sharing stories of some of his own 'hangovers' and the shenanigans which led up to them. The laughter came as easily as it had last night. With the tin, now empty in his lap, Dougal watched as she yawned. Rosalyn's creamy coloring was no longer tinted green and her slate colored eyes were sharper. Not her usual daggers that would flash and cut him to the quick, but still sharper and less pained than before. Her feeling better made him feel better. She yawned again.

"Try and get some sleep. When you feel better we can see how much snow your temper tantrum brought and if we can get home yet or not."

"Hey," She said with a sleepy and defensive voice. "I don't throw temper tantrums. It's called having a weather curse." He snorted.

"Right."

"Shut up."

The cards made a soft rustling sound as he shuffled them in his palms. It was not enough to wake her, though he did check. Rosalyn was still sleeping soundly, curled tightly in on herself, blanket pulled over her head. A slender arm dangled off the side of the mattress. He dealt himself a tenth hand of solitaire, but wasn't really paying attention to the game. His aquamarine eyes lingered on the lump on the bed that was her. He mused, silently, over the events that had led him to this – Rosalyn Brolchain sleeping off a hangover in his man-cave. Rosalyn Brolchain in his arms when he woke up this morning. They had spent all night together.

He wondered, first idly, but with growing sincerity, if they would be forced to marry. By now everyone would have realized she and he did not return to the castle Macintosh when the storm hit. It would not take a wise man to realize if they disappeared together and reappeared together they must have been together. He knew her virtue remained untouched and she knew her virtue was intact. He was also fairly certain his father and her father would believe them if they promised nothing immodest occurred. If not because of trust then because of her obvious disdain of him and his well-maintained façade of indifference toward her. Yet society at large might still demand they marry.

It would kill him.

Not because he could not live married to her, the very opposite, their arranged nuptials would give him what he desired without any effort on his part. He would not need to woo her if she walked down the aisle under duress. But the idea that he had caused her pain, disgrace, it would destroy him. She would never be happy, not with a forced hand. Even if she were to stop hating him over the course of their union she would resent him. As much as he wanted to marry her he needed their union to be mutual, not mandatory. Dougal returned his gaze to the game, turning over the two of hearts in his hand and the idea of marriage in his mind.

There was a reason Macintosh men fought without shirts. Dougal had heard the tale from the time he was a little boy on his father's knee. It was during the Great War, the war which unified the clans under King Fergus' intrepid hand. Thomas Brolchain was Lord Macintosh's best friend and right hand in battle. Thomas Brolchain was also cursed. It was said his fury brought winds so hot that those who went to fight wearing more than body paint died from heat long before they met their foes on the field of battle.

At the time Dougal had thought nothing of the tale. War paint and bare chests was how the men dressed in his clan and it was how he would dress. He believed in the Brolchain curse already, he'd seen firsthand what Rosalyn could do after all there was no doubt in his mind that her father was not at least as powerful. The further examples of the Brolchain curse were unnecessary so he ignored them for the most part. Dougal had not thought much of the tales of Laird Brolchain and his searing temper until he opened the door of the cabin to see what morning brought.

A hot wind slapped him in the face, the sun blazed and the thick blanket of snow that had accumulated overnight was melting before his very eyes. Yes, their parents had noticed he and Rosalyn were missing and no, Thomas Brolchain was not happy about it. The fire in the wind told him the cursed patriarch was furious. Sighing Dougal shut the door. Last night in the blizzard the plan had made sense, today in the heat wave he knew they'd made a mistake.

"My father has noticed my absence I take it." Rosalyn observed dryly. She was sitting up in bed again, her rave hair completely free from its tie now falling in inky waves about her shoulders. Dougal swallowed.

"If the wind is any indication then, yes." His mouth felt as dry as the wind. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, you were right, the lay-in helped. My head is still a bit fuzzy but I don't feel as though the hellhounds are barking in my brain anymore." She swung her feet to the floor and stood. She appeared to be steady, it was a good sign.

"Will we be able to leave soon?" She asked as she padded to the chair where last night's gown was draped. She examined it carefully, feeling the hem and the skirt to ensure they were dry.

"Soon. Your father's temper has its advantages, unlike yours." The sharp grey was back in full as she shot him a look over her gown.

"What did I tell you last night?" she asked. "I made three points."

"Um… You think I'm actually good company, I'm fun to be around and you were drunk, you definitely made a point about being drunk." He quipped back at her. It earned him a darker glare.

"No. I said it's a curse, which means I have no control. So it's not my fault. Actually it's your fault for pissing me off." She ticked off each sentence on her fair fingers.

"Your logic is astounding."

"Dougal." She warned, "I still have a headache, don't cross me." Her tone was to be headed, he raised his hands in defeat.

"We will be able to return very shortly to the castle, if that I would imagine. You will be free of my odious presence soon enough." He sat down at the table with a huff and crossed his arms dramatically over his chest.

He had been so nice this morning and so nice last night she had almost forgotten who she was with. This dramatic pout was enough to remind her that the kind, handsome fellow of last night was still immature, dramatic Dougal – It's – All – About – Me – Macintosh.

Try as she might though she could not absolve this guilty feeling that she had offended him. It was a strange sensation. One she did not like.

Her fingers smudged the already chipped paint as she touched his shoulder. His skin was warm; perhaps there was some truth in the descriptions that Macintosh men were hot blooded. Or perhaps it was her own blood growing hot with the contact.

"You are better company than I have given you credit for in the past." She squeezed his shoulder gently and he actually looked up at her. She'd rarely seen his eyes – or any of him this close and unguarded before. _His eyes are so blue_ she thought dumbly. It made her insides feel funny, looking into that crystal blue gaze.

"You were very good to me this morning – and last night and you didn't have to be. I certainly was not so kind to you. I-" his eyes were so keen upon her she faltered. Her tongue felt like clay. "Thank you." She finished softly. His eyes held her, their clear cerulean gaze made it impossible for Rosalyn to look away. To move her hand from his shoulder. For time to continue. It was a brief moment but the world was at a standstill. She could see emotion in his eyes, actual feelings, they were bare before her. Though by the time she recognized their artless honesty the moment was passed and the spell was broken. His voice woke her from the trance his eyes had put her in,

"You're welcome." He said. Rosalyn pulled her hand away from his skin quickly, embarrassed to have crossed what now felt like a very intimate line. She turned from him, casting about for something to shift the tone of the conversation. Get them back onto familiar and steady ground.

"Do you think it is clear enough to travel now or must we wait a few hours?" She asked.

"The ground was clearing nicely when I looked but our travel will in part depend on you. Do you feel well enough to walk home?" Rosalyn rubbed her temple.

"I think I feel about as well as I will for a while. I will not wait here all day over a headache. I am sure you wish to return to the castle as much as I wish to return home." Her first instinct was to make a jab at him about his harem of girls that seemed to follow his every move but she did not. To make such a snide comment without a context for it was to be harsh for the sake of being harsh. It was unkind. He stood,

"Very well then, will you need assistance dressing?" She arched a brow. He returned the expression. "I helped you out of that dress, might as well help you into it." Her creamy skin turned rosy. The color crept up her neck and across the high arch of her cheekbones. She dropped her eyes to his feet.

"Yes." She said. "I will need some help." Rosalyn looked up at him through her lashes. "Thank you." They stood there for a long moment not moving, just looking at one another. He swallowed thickly. The bob of his Adam's apple broke the spell; she turned away, reaching for her dress. She gathered up the scarlet fabric, bunching the skirt in her hands. Rosalyn turned back to him and handed him the dress, the skirt bundled in his hands, the bodice hanging loose and open.

"Hold it up." She told him. He looked at her over the top of the dress but did as he was told. She nodded once and then ducked up into the dress, her arms slipping into the sleeves and her head coming through the open top. She was now, suddenly, very close to him, in the circle of his arms as he still held the dress up.

"You can lower the skirt now." She told him lightly touching his arm. He blinked. "The skirt, you can let it down." Slowly he began lowering the fabric in his hands, instead of letting the dress fall; he knelt with it, watching as her underskirt disappeared under a curtain of scarlet velvet. At her feet he looked up at her, up along the plane of her body and up into her face as she looked down at him.

Dougal looked up at her from her feet and gave her a small smile. It was adorable, childish and handsome. Rosalyn felt her body react, stomach swoop and heart pound and lungs loose its breath.

Slowly, not stepping back but simply standing up Dougal straightened. He was so close to her, well in what she would have considered her personal space. He'd done that more in the last few days than anyone ever before. It was a heady feeling; he was warm, she could feel his body heat from his chest, his breath ruffling her hair. He smelled tartly sweet, like crisp apples. She looked up to him again, opening her mouth slightly but uncertain as to what she would say. He looked down at her, lips parting as well. The air was thick.

"Will you lace me up?" she asked, her voice breathy. He closed his mouth and nodded. She turned, his hand remained near her waist; she could feel his touch along her ribs. Her hands shook as she pulled her hair up and over her shoulder. She could feel his deft fingers lacing up the back of her dress, her own hands; full of nervous energy began braiding her dark hair.

His fingers brushed the soft skin of the nape of her neck as he tightened the laces of her dress. Electricity, like lightning, shot through her and she inhaled sharply. His fingers lingered on her skin and slowly she turned to face him, his hand still on her shoulder. She looked up at him through her lashes.

His hand slid up her neck slowly until his large hand cupped her jaw. Her eyes drifted shut under his touch. She couldn't think about what was about to happen, she could only feel. Feel his breath on her cheek, feel how her head tilted up and to the side, feel his thumb sweep over her chin, and feel his lips brush hers in a gentle, lingering kiss.

* * *

1 Mo muirnín = My Darling

2 A ghrá geal = Beloved


	6. Chapter 6

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Six

_Wee ones, words hurt. They can hurt more than blows, but sometimes what hurts the most is what is unsaid.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

*CRACK!* The sting that went through her hand as she slapped Dougal squarely across the cheek was nothing compared to the sting that went through her heart. She had indulged herself momentarily falling into his kiss and his arms. For a moment she had forgotten herself and who she was with, she'd forgotten everything and allowed herself to feel. But as they broke away to breath, lips parting momentarily she remembered. He wasn't interested in her. He didn't care. He was Dougal Macintosh, the Scottish Casanova, how many other girls had received similar treatment she wondered. How much had he practiced to perfect his technique?

"What the hell was that for?" She asked him angrily, her chest heaving, straining against her freshly tightened dress. Breathing was difficult and damn did her hand still sting. Dougal's cheek was an angry red and his eyes were wide, water tinted against his will.

"What was what for?! You're the one slappin' me!" He replied equally as angry in words and tone. His eyes were less ferocious. She couldn't look into them, couldn't face that brilliant blue gaze now dulled by her hand.

"That kiss!" She exclaimed; waving her hand around, he took an instinctive step back away from her. "I'm not your consolation prize or last resort because other options aren't around." He opened his mouth to interrupt but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. "You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't. I won't be used and I won't let myself be some place filler."

"Rosalyn-"

"YOU CAN'T JUST KISS ME BECAUSE WHAT'S-HER-FACE ISN'T HERE!" She screamed at him, her whole body trembling. Tears swelled against her dark lashes. "I thought we'd reached a truce last night, but I -!"

"NOW JUST WAIT A MOMENT!" Dougal roared, cutting her off and stunning her silent. His chest too was rising and falling rapidly, his entire face now flushed. "Maybe I wanted to kiss you!" he snapped at her angrily. It brought her out of her stupor. She laughed. Threw her head back and laughed bitterly in his face. It hurt as if someone was stomping her heart into sour wine but she couldn't help herself. He wanted to kiss her? That was a low lie even for him.

"Maybe you're a right bastard! Don't you tell me you wanted to kiss me to make this okay or to get what you want. You don't care one jot for me you just love yourself and you love getting your way – one way or another. I'm not a price and I'm not a dare and I'm not something to prove. You can't play with my heart. I have one! I am so sick of people acting as if I don't have one!" The back of her throat felt raw and hot with tears she refused to shed. "I do have feelings and you can't just mess with them as if I don't! I didn't spend the night here to throw myself at your feet like your preferred company! I didn't plan this like the women of your harem do! I wanted you to leave me alone in the first place – REMEMBER?!" She rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand. She was not going to cry goddamn it. She was not going to allow Dougal Macintosh to get to her, she wasn't going to prove her sisters right about how miserable and lonely and unloveable she was.

"Poor brown Rosalyn," she sneered at him, "Odd Rosalyn, Cold Rosalyn. Sad, ugly Rosalyn's never been kissed. Book girl needs to be saved, needs a man. I don't want your pity!" Dougal opened and closed his mouth, once, twice, three times, his hand raised in mid-gesture. She couldn't bare it any more, being so close to him. The cabin, once filled with their laughter was suffocating her. She wanted to cry. The tears were right there, so close to the surface but she would not let them fall. She would not be weak in front of someone who thought so little of her. She turned for the door.

"I am going home, storm or no, I won't stay here." She might have kept the tears from her eyes but they still stained her voice.

"I will come with you." Dougal was behind her at the door, his jaw stubbornly set.

"You'll what?" She hiccupped.

"You've made your feelings for me abundantly clear and have no fears, milady, there will be no repeat performance of earlier but I am duty bound to see you safely home." She opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a hand. "Do not argue with me about this." He told her, his tone serious, as unbending as iron and as cold as well. She gave him a curt nod and stepped into the day.

Shit it was bright! Rosalyn took an involuntary step back as the sun burned her eyes and tried to split open her already aching head. The cabin had been so dim compared to this.

"I am never drinking again." She vowed under her breath, first the nausea, then Dougal, now this? It wasn't worth it.

The pain of the aftermath of the kiss gnawed at Dougal long after the sting of her slap had faded. They spoke not a word as they trudged through the now muddy, scorching hot woods towards Brolchain House. Her words hurt more than a physical blow ever could, her ill opinion of him wounding his heart. It was the only thing he could hear as they walked, every word ringing in his ears over and over again.

… _You don't care one jot for me…_

… _You can't play with my heart…_

… _You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…_

"Rosalyn Brolchain!" Someone must've spotted them approaching the great house for on the steps awaiting them stood a furious Rhiannon Donnan – Brolchain. Although Lady Brolchain's fury did not generate storms it was no less fierce than if it did. She was seething and staring at her eldest child as if her gaze alone might strike the girl down. Beside him the already withdrawn Rosalyn turned even further in on herself.

"Get. In. The. House." Lady Brolchain snapped, pointing forcefully to the door. "You, young lady are in so much trouble right now! And just wait until your father gets home if you think I am angry!" The matriarch's dark gaze rested on him and it felt once again as if he'd been slapped.

"Your father has asked that I keep you if you were to show up here before he found you. Do you have any idea how upset your mother is? She is beside herself and sick with worry." Dougal hung his head. He could not imagine how distressed his mother must be, her only child lost in a blizzard. Gone without a trace.

Rhiannon Brolchain showed Dougal and Rosalyn into the formal front room of the great house to wait for the Laird and Lord to return from their search. A servant had been dispatched as soon as they had been seen to retrieve the fathers and other men in the search party. Rosalyn hated the room, the family only ever used it for the stiffest formal occasions or when someone (usually her) was in serious trouble. She hated the rug with its two hundred intricately woven knots, it'd not changed in twenty years and she had counted them all nearly two hundred times she was certain. Her eyes cast down the threads mocked her.

"…Ruining the party, losing control of your temper, making a spectacle of yourself…" As her mother rattled off her list of sins Rosalyn could hear the shuffle of feet, swish of skirts, and hiss of malice that meant her sisters were watching her shame. Beside her Dougal stood straight backed and stiff, his gaze respectfully lowered. He too had a front row seat to her humiliation. He had had one this morning as well. Her head still throbbed and her chest ached. If only the floor would swallow her up.

It did not.

Instead the heavy booted steps echoing through the castle announced her fate had been sealed.

"Dougal Macintosh!" The door flew open and crashed into the wall with enough force to make the entire house shake. It was the first time the young lord had moved since Lady Brolchain began her lecture. He winced.

Lord Macintosh's dressing down of his son consisted of much yelling with a fair amount of flailing of the arms and pacing for good measure. If she'd not felt so wretched (and she did feel awful – Lord Macintosh's rant was brutal on her headache) Rosalyn would have felt sympathy for Dougal. But as she stood there beside him, occasionally referenced but never addressed by the Lord she could not feel for Dougal. She couldn't feel anything except the suffocating, crushing feeling of her father's displeasure.

Laird Brolchain did not say a word. He didn't have to. The hot, howling wind spoke for him. The look he leveled at his daughter, the unwavering gaze spoke for him. Rosalyn knew what he would say; he did not need to give a speech. She could feel it.

She had disappointed him.

The interview at Laird Brolchain's had been agony. His father had well and thoroughly verbally eviscerated him in front of Laird and Lady Brolchain and their daughters. Rosalyn had stood beside him the entire tirade, her dark head submissively bowed as her mother looked as if she wanted to strike her and her father's ire raged outside.

Mercifully Dougal was now allowed to return home and face his mother and his punishment. He had glanced at Rosalyn one last time, a fleeting, quick look over his shoulder as his father marched him out of the house. Her head hung low and her shoulders were hunched high. As the door closed he could see her younger sisters beginning to circle the room. They were birds of prey and she was a wounded deer.

Outside his father thrust the reigns of his mount, Chester, into his hands. He regarded his son as he did so, a new question quirking his wild brow. The yelling had drained most of the rage from the wiry man; he was now free to think and to analyze.

"Where did you and Lady Rosalyn spend the night?" he asked mounting his horse like a sack of meal.

"The hunting cabin, sir."

"All night? Alone?"

"Yes sir." Lord Macintosh considered his next question carefully.

"And nothing improper occurred? Nothing aside from the obvious that is."

"Nothing occurred. Lady Rosalyn is a virtuous woman, on my honor." Dougal's mind was filled once again with their kiss. …_You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…_

Lord Macintosh nodded.

"I thought as much. As did Laird Brolchain. We trust you and we trust Rosalyn." He paused and then added with a chuckle. "Nothing could have possibly happened. We know how much she hates you!"

…_You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…_

"Were you and Laird Macintosh intimate?" Rhiannon demanded of her eldest daughter. Lord and Laird Macintosh had left them and the interrogation had begun in earnest. Rosalyn stood before her parents, her head down, behind her Catriona, Fiona, Ina, and Agnes had assembled for a show.

"No, Mamma, we were not."

"He did not take advantage of you?"

"No, Mamma, he did not."

"He did not touch you?" The kiss flooded her senses and Rosalyn faltered.

"N-No. Mamma Dougal-"

"Laird Macintosh, young Lady!" Rhiannon snapped.

"Laird Macintosh was a perfect gentleman."

"You swear it?"

"I swear it." Behind her in a loud whisper, one that was meant to be heard, Catriona hissed to Fiona,

"Of course he didn't touch her! She's not nearly pretty enough for someone like him to be slightly interested in the likes of her!"

_Her? Sean, I've not had enough to drink to even consider dancing with her…_

_Maybe I wanted to kiss you…_


	7. Chapter 7

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Seven

_Dreams, wee ones, are not wishes your heart makes. If that were so, what kind of heart do we have that gives us nightmares?  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_Rosalyn awoke slowly, the pale golden light of morning a gentle caress on her cheek telling her softly it was time to begin her day. The sunrise played hide and seek with her through the canopy of leaves in fiery hues of red, orange, and yellow. The fall finery casted jewel colored shadows about her and across the snowy white furs and fabrics of the bed. A broad, lazy smile split her face and she stretched long, like a cat. With a contented sigh Rosalyn sat up._

_She was promptly pulled back down into the plush blankets and back into the strong embrace of her husband._

"_Five more minutes." He yawned, "Stay with me another five minutes." She happily obliged, curling into his side, her dark hair blanketing across his strong, bare chest. She could feel his smile as he buried his nose into her hair, dropping a kiss onto her crown. She looked up at him and he dropped a second kiss to her lips – long, slow, and sweet. She smiled._

"I love you. I have for a while_." He told her, his forehead resting on hers so they were eye to eye. Looking straight into his sea green gaze she replied without hesitation,_

"_I love you too, Dougal."_

"You mock every suitor out of himself." _Dougal told her darkly, one hand resting on the doorknob._ "You put down everyone, crush them under your heel rather than allow them to get close to you. To get to know you._" _

"_Why would you even want to?" Fiona crowed. He was leaving her, egged on by her sisters who were circling the room – circling her and laughing madly._

"I had not had enough to drink that night, I thought I had but-"

"_He got a good look at you and realized there wasn't enough drink in the world to make you pretty!" Ina cackled. He had one foot out the door. She wanted to stop him; she had to make him stay. To forgive her, to love her, to make her a better person in the way she knew only he could. Yet she couldn't speak. Her open mouth made no sound even though she was screaming. _Stop! Please! Wait! Stay!_ Her whole body felt like she was moving through molasses in January._

"If you weren't so full of yourself," _He continued his voice rising,_ "and did not spend your time trying to find ways to cut every person who tried to get near you, you'd see that I-"

"_Am leaving you for me!" Catriona exclaimed bursting through the door and into Dougal's arms. They kissed passionately and Rosalyn felt a cold knife slice through her chest._

_No. No, no, no, no_

"No!" Rosalyn sat up in her bed, a scream ripping from her. She couldn't breathe, not deeply, her chest rose and fell rapidly with each shallow, painful breath. Her skin was clammy and her night rail and sheets were tangled in sweaty knots. Her hair had worked loose from its plat and clung to her neck like it would suffocate her. Her hands were shaking as she wiped the moisture from her cheeks and remembered where she was. She was at home, in her room, it was the beginning of her fourth week of being grounded. She had had a dream. The nightmare had turned to mist when she opened her eyes, leaving only a faint memory and vague feeling in its wake. She was confused, conflicted, and unsettled. She knew Dougal was involved somehow but she didn't know how. Her mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. At night she couldn't sleep and during the day she couldn't focus.

It was blacker than pitch outside her window and she knew it was still the middle of the night. She also knew there was no way she would be falling back asleep again. She buried her face in her hands. A soft knock at her door made her jolt as if she'd been struck by lightning.

"Rosalyn?" Agnes called softly, opening the chamber door slightly. "Sister, are you alright?" Rosalyn took a deep breath and exhaled with a hiss through her teeth.

"Yes, Nes, it was just a dream. I am sorry I woke you." Agnes did not accept Rosalyn's words, instead she entered her room and closed the door firmly behind her.

"Just a dream? It is the second one this week you've woken me up either screaming or sobbing and the fifth time this month. It's very plain you are not sleeping well, won't you tell me what's wrong?" Rosalyn stared at her younger sister as if she had no idea who the girl before her was. Since when did her baby sister become so perceptive?

"Agnes, really, there is nothing wrong, it was a dream. I barely remember it." She said, hands nervously playing with her hair. "Go back to bed, get some sleep."

"Not until you talk to me." Ros, please, I know there is something if not wrong then not right. You are not right, not yourself." Little Nes padded over from the door and crawled into bed with her. How many times had she done this when she was a wee babe - seeking comfort from her sister in the night when the monsters and the weather threatened? And now she was the one giving the comfort, not receiving it.

"I have been having trouble sleeping some nights, that's all."

"Trouble sleeping usually doesn't involve screams of 'Please' and 'No' and 'Stop'." The look Agnes gave her was pointed, a perfect mirror of Rosalyn's skeptical gaze. The elder Brolchain did not appreciate being on the receiving end. Agnes continued; "The rings under your eyes are too dark to be from a rare bad night. You're not sleeping, but you're also not awake. You're not here with us, most days your mind is miles away. You're an empty shell at the table."

"What happened to my baby sister? Since when did you become so observant?" Rosalyn tried to deflect.

"What happened to my opinionated big sister?" Agnes countered, "You've been pensive since that party. Did something happen that night?" The kiss flooded her mind and Rosalyn closed her eyes, willing it to leave her be. Willing her pulse to cease to race.

"Nothing improper occurred; by The Dagda I swear it."

"It certainly did not sound like the case tonight. Please, Rosalyn, if something happened you must tell someone. There is no shame in it." Rosalyn's head shot up so that she might stare and glare at her sister.

"Do you truly believe Dougal capable of _that_?" She hissed, "You dare to suggest that he would force himself on another?" Agnes' eyes grew wider at the venom with which Rosalyn spoke.

"Sister I suggest nothing, I simply ask. Your dream sound-"

"I remember nothing of my dream but I do know it was not about _that_." Agnes nodded, blinking a few times. She regarded Rosalyn carefully before speaking again.

"Did something else happen? It does not have to be improper to have affected you – you did spend time alone with someone you hate. Have you reached a truce? Do you like young Macintosh _any_ better?" Against her will tears welled in her eyes. She didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore, least of all what she was feeling.

Rosalyn woke the next morning to the sensation of a giant cold, wet spot forming on her shoulder and something dripping onto her clavicle. Agnes was drooling on her shoulder. Last night Rosalyn had cried herself back to sleep and apparently rather than return to her own room Agnes had fallen asleep in bed beside her. Sunlight streamed in through the window, streaking her tangled sheets gold.

Last night came back in waves and phases and bits and pieces. Rosalyn rubbed her eyes with the heel of the hand Agnes wasn't sleeping on. Her waking and unwaking hours were plagued with what she didn't know. She did know that it had to do with Dougal. She did know that she didn't know, nor understand anything else. It was driving her mad.

Gently she removed Agnes from her shoulder, the drool starting to give her gooseflesh. Like a rock the girl rolled into the pillows utterly unfazed. Rosalyn got out of bed and went to sit on her window sill. The sun was up and bright but still fairly low in the sky. The rhythm of outdoor labor had just begun.

"_I think you're beautiful_." In her head she could hear Dougal say those words but she didn't know if he had or had not in reality. Her dreams and real life were blurring. Had he truly been so kind? Had she truly enjoyed his company? Was the peace she'd felt imagined – the safety, the care? Did she dream that he had said he loved her? Surly she must have. It could not be so. More than anything she wondered if the kiss had been as good as she remembered.

Absently she ran her finger tips over her lower lip as she looked out toward the Castle Macintosh.

Try as he might Dougal could not sit still. Energy and uncertainty rolled within him like a pot of water on a flame. It had been a month since his night in the woods. His parents had bellowed at him then embraced him in tears, overwrought with relief that he was alive and well. He'd been grounded for life, but that house arrest had not lasted a fortnight. Life was now back to normal, at least so far as his mother and father were concerned. He'd trespassed, repented, performed his penance, and was now forgiven – though he doubted the sin would ever be forgotten. He certainly could not forget it. She truly thought ill of him. Rosalyn thought him incapable of finding her attractive. She thought him capable not of love but of taking advantage of her. She believed him shallow and mean enough to play with her emotions and to never engage his heart. Instead of allowing him to dispel her notions with the truth she assumed the worst and retreated in on herself. He'd not meant to but he'd hurt her – or at least he'd put salt in an existing wound. Moreover the truce, the comfortable understanding they had reached was now in ruins.

_How much clearer do you need her to be, man? _Sean had asked when he had given him and Ian an abridge account of what had happened after he and Rosalyn had stormed from the dance. He'd left out the whisky, the undressing, and the bed and glazed over as much of the kiss and emotional aftermath as he could.

_She hates your guts Dougal; if that time together didn't change that then I doubt anything will._ Ian had spoken truth. Dougal was sure he was right. She was never going to love him – to even like him.

_Give it up!_ Sean and Ian had both said. _Move on._ They were right of course, he knew they were right. In his head he understood but his heart was another matter entirely. His heart refused to listen. Grimly he realized he could no sooner stop loving Rosalyn than he could stop eating. Yes, he could fast for a time – pretend he didn't care and ignore his heart but in the end he would waste away.

Pacing did channel some of his nerves into something other than worry but it did not relieve all of the tension clawing his shoulders. The Brolchain clan was expected for dinner. It was the heaven and hell of the friendship their families shared. It would be the first he would see of Rosalyn since _that_ morning. He didn't know what he wanted to say but he needed to speak to her. If he could not apologize, if she would not be wooed he at least wanted to see her smile. It had lit up the cabin like sunshine in spring. He just wanted to make her smile.

Laird Brolchain entered the hall first, his lady beside him. Behind them ornamented and preening was Catriona followed closely by Fiona. Ina was on their heels. Agnes, the youngest, came last. Rosalyn did not follow. She was not lagging behind in protest or tarrying outside. She had not come at all. Dougal felt as if he had been slapped a second time. She had not come. She refused to be in the same room as he ever again.

Agnes did not often think about her age. She was eleven, two years younger than Ina and eight years younger than Rosalyn. There were times she was annoyed with her age – being young had disadvantage. She could not dance unless it was with her father. Her elder sisters, especially Ina, always monopolized their lady's maid Iona or dressing because they were out and she was not.

As she sat at dinner, Agnes discovered one benefit of youth. As conversation flourished around the table no one included her. Usually she hated the exclusion but tonight she relished it. Something had caught her attention more than the discussion of the King's new young General.

Dougal.

He sat a seat down from her, near the head of the table, at her mother's right. Between him and her was Ina, who alternated between lording the seating arrangement over the fuming Catriona and Fiona and attempting engaged the young Lord in conversation. Agnes had not been around the Laird long, all her life yes, but it was not long. She could, however, say with confidence that Dougal Macintosh liked attention. He relished attention. Except tonight. This night his mind was on the far side of the moon and his mood was just as dark. He was closed off, his attention undivided from the empty chair that was across from him. The chair Rosalyn should be filling if she was not still banished to her room. Dougal watched the vacant chair all night and Agnes watched him. He only spoke when spoken to and then only briefly. The circles under his eyes were not quite as dark as they were under Rosalyn's eyes but his gaze was just as hollow. Agnes could feel him hurting just as she could feel her sister's strife. Agnes was now certain something had happened between the young Lord and her elder sister. Something Rosalyn would not admit. All through desert Agnes wondered if she could get the answer from Dougal, however, she had no idea how she would ask given the way Catriona, Fiona, and Ina tracked his every move.

Agnes took a seat near her mother in the family room, it was the first year she joined the adults in their after dinner time instead of being shut away in the nursery. Years before it was a boisterous room as all of the children were too young to amuse themselves in adult company. Rosalyn had been first to leave the nursery, she had always had a gift for finding her pleasures in quiet activities, individual activities – reading and sewing, listening and watching. Time later the more social Catriona, Fiona and Dougal finally left and Rosalyn returned to the children's room. She'd sit on the sill with a book in her lap or sometimes on the floor and play with the still too young Agnes. Even as a girl Nes had known Rosalyn was not staying in the nursery with her as a companion but instead as a way to avoid the family room.

Agnes busied her hands with the repetitive rhythm of knitting - a mindless task that allowed her to watch and participate in conversations around the room. Idly she wondered what Rosalyn would be doing with herself now if she was not still grounded. The nursery was now closed, there was no escape. By the fire Mamma and Lady Calleigh were sewing and speaking of those delicately domestic manners that occupied a woman of status' life. Papa and Lord Macintosh were playing a very involved game of cards, the rules of which Agnes did not understand but apparently required violent swearing at certain points. Dougal was attempting to play as well but he seemed to be losing – he was damning his opponents less and his face was as dark and ominous as a thunderhead. Catriona, Fiona, and Ina did not seem to notice this grey mood as they conversed and preened loudly – calling as much attention to themselves as they could, undoubtedly hoping to distract Dougal from the game. Agnes was amused to see he was resolutely ignoring them and their exploits. She could just see Rosalyn sighing heavily and murmuring a cutting remark under her breath as she rolled her eyes. In her honor Agnes shook her dark head. It was unfair Rosalyn was excluded from this moment, but perhaps it was merciful – she was spared the torture.

Dougal was not an expert at the game of cards he was engaged in. He did understand that his father had won the round, but why that warranted more swearing than if he had lost was still a mystery. As Thomas Brolchain shuffled the deck, calling for a rematch, Dougal gazed out the dark window. Brolchain House was not visible save for the absence of stars in the sky where it stood on the horizon. It was too far to be truly seen but in his mind's eye Dougal could see the house, black and still save one light in her room. He could picture her silhouette, wearing not but her slip, the way she had in the cabin, sitting on the window sill. Her nose would be in a book and her mind would be anywhere but on the dinner or on him.

_Nothing could have possibly happened. We know how much she hates you!_

…_You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…_

"It is a shame Lady Rosalyn could not join us, this tapestry has reminded me, had she not begun piecing a quilt?" Lady Calleigh commented to Rhiannon as she held up the sampler she had been working on to admire her stitching.

Unfortunately Rhiannon and Agnes were not the only ones to hear Calleigh's casual comment. Ina's ears pricked up and she turned her nose in the air.

"I for one am glad she is at home, this evening has been so pleasant without her ouroboros presence."1

"You mean odious, idiot." Fiona snapped, annoyed her sister had shown her up with such a strong stone to cast at their favorite target.

"Don't call me an idiot." Ina whined.

"Well, you are." Fiona replied.

"Yes, well, you're ugly." The gauntlet was dropped. As Fiona and Ina descended into petty insults, and Rhiannon and Thomas tried to prevent the spectacle the argument was becoming, and Calleigh and Craig tried to politely ignore the middle Brolchain children, Catriona raised her chin and in a haughty voice said:

"You're quite right, Ina, tonight was most enjoyable." She batted her light eyes in Dougal's direction. His gaze was now firmly focused on the cards in his hands, his blunt fingers bending the corners until they creased. "Rosalyn is too sullen and tiresome to appreciate nights such as this or to make them pleasant. She is too headstrong, too selfish and so self-endeared. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star."

Several things happened at once, so quickly that Agnes wasn't sure what happened first. Dougal's heavy wingback chair was now flat on its back, legs in the air like a hound playing dead. He'd thrown his cards, now crumpled pieces of paper, onto the table and was now standing with all of the ominous energy of a thunderstorm. His cerulean gaze was fixed on Catriona; if looks could kill she would be not but ash and bone.

"You accuse Rosalyn of being tiresome?" he asked, voice low and barbed. "I have never heard you speak save to insult and defame your sister. You are the selfish one. The vain one, with your spoiled temper, and your capricious and insolent carriage. From morning to noon and from noon to night you seek to build yourself up by putting your sister down. Rosalyn is beautiful, and she is smart, and she is kind and she is a threat to you – one you wish to destroy. But I tell you this the uglier you speak of her the uglier I find you!" The speech exploded from his chest, increasing in volume and pace and decreasing in articulate rhetoric. At the end of his little tirade, a near match for the tantrum of the archery field he stormed from the room leaving in his wake a stunned silence so still that the slam of his door echoed around those who remained behind.

Catriona's jaw was so unhinged Agnes could not help but be reminded of a snake. It certainly did not help that her eyes were also narrowed to slits. Fiona and Ina had stopped arguing and were staring at their sister, Rhiannon and Lady Calleigh were staring at the door which Dougal had thrown open in disgust and the Lord and Laird were exchanging identical looks of utter confusion.

Dougal slammed his bedroom door behind him with such force that his sword and scabbard that had been hanging on a hook on his wall fell to the ground and left a large dent in the wood of his floor. He stormed to his window seat and with the forceful sweep of an arm flung all that had been resting on the ledge onto the floor. Sheet music scattered across the floor and under his large bed, one of the strings of his _crwth_ snapped, but the frame, mercifully did not break.2 He threw himself onto the sill and pulled the curtains over the window, blocking himself from view and creating a small, private haven.

The glass was cool against his shoulder and without a candle his small little world was lit only by the moon outside which now appeared more pale and sickly than full and round. He could still feel himself shaking as even more venomous thoughts came to his head. How dare she abuse Rosalyn like that?! How dare her parents not stop her right away?! He could not believe one sister could be so malicious toward another.

_I am still alone_ he could hear Rosalyn's sad confession in his head. He was the only child and yet she was the lonely one. Dougal leaned his head back against the wall and looked out to the darkness on the horizon that was Brolchain House, his thoughts now turned fully to his lonely Rosalyn.

* * *

_1 The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tail. It often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. Also it is the tattoo Scully gets in one of the later seasons of the X-Files #funfact_

_2 The crwth is the ancient Celtic lyre. The lyre is also the symbol of clan Macintosh and by the playing of a magical tune it can be used to kill Dingwalls._


	8. Chapter 8

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Note: This chapter holds a couple of gambles on my part, please, bear with me and maybe suspend logic for a little bit – who knows, the entire fic might improve if you do that._

* * *

Chapter Eight

_Never underestimate the power of jealousy and the power of envy to destroy. Never underestimate that, dear Girls, never underestimate what jealousy can do.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_Dear Brigid,_

_You must forgive my tardy reply to your favor of 11 July, home has been most hectic and I have not had a moment's peace – not time enough to think let alone write. It has been the most distressing month dear Brigid, O! my poor heart. My eldest sister has ruined herself most publically and for horribly selfish, insidious reasons. This last month my notorious sister made a spectacle of herself at a banquet in honor of the goodly Lords Macintosh, bickering shrilly with the Laird and scheming she brought down a blizzard on us all. It was orchestrated so that she might be alone with young Macintosh. She protests she likes him not but her beady eyes have designs upon him and they have come to pass!_

_She and the Laird became stranded in a private cabin (undoubtedly a part of her plan) and, well, one cannon blame the laird for taking what was offered up on a silver platter. She is utterly ruined and now spends her days ill and in bed. I cannot say for certain that she is with child but she behaves as if she might be. I think she intends to claim she carries his sire to force his hand into marriage. Poor, honorable Dougal will forever be tied to such a woman, a lying, scheming, cold bitch._

Catriona signed her letter with a flourish and a twisted, wicked smile. Brigid was not a close friend, despite what she thought, but she was useful. Brigid had notoriously loose lips and the contents of this letter; the tapestry Catriona had just woven with words and half-truths was too good not to share. Which was the point.

Dougal was in love with Rosalyn, the night of the dinner party had made that shockingly clear. Catriona had been humiliated. Rejected. No one rejected Catriona Brolchain, especially not in favor for the likes of Rosalyn. She was prettier than Rosalyn, she was more popular, and had more social grace in her little finger than in three of her elder sister. And yet Dougal had not chosen her. He had chosen _Rosalyn_.

He would pay for that.

Rosalyn would be ruined, hopefully exiled or at least married off quickly and quietly to save the face of the family. Her virtue would be suspect and hopefully so would her honesty and integrity. She would, in either case, be forgotten and notorious. If she could not have the Laird Catriona would be damned if her sister would. Rosalyn would soon be unfit to be the bride of the only child of the primary landholder. She would be branded a liar, a schemer, and a whore. A gentleman could not marry a ruined chit of a gentleman; they would have no place at court. If society were to think she threw herself at the young Laird for selfish, social climbing reasons…The stain of impropriety would keep her sister from being acknowledged at DunBroch and that would rule her out as a bride for any upwardly mobile noble, a noble like Dougal.

Catriona nodded assuredly to herself and rang for a servant to take her mail. Her plan would not fail.

Dougal was rudely pulled from a very good dream involving a snow storm, a cabin, a certain raven haired beauty, and some honey by a loud pounding on the massive door of the castle. It echoed through the halls like thunder. Momentarily disoriented it took Dougal a minute to realize the yelling was not Rosalyn's delicious threats and chocked pleas but his father swearing blue at being disturbed so late. With a resigned sigh Dougal sung his long legs to the ground and reached for the modesty of his robe. His body was still cooling and he didn't want to appear before the nighttime intruder with the memory of his dream physically apparent. He also really did not want any more questions.

It had been two weeks since his outburst at the dinner party. He had adamantly refused to apologize to Catriona, and surprisingly his mother had not pushed the issue. Instead she had folded herself up on the window sill opposite him and closed the shades around them both. She'd studied him that night after the Brolchain's had left. Her dark eyes had been thoughtful and had glittered in such a way that told him that she knew. She could see what he had tried to hide. The smile she gave him, he hoped meant that she knew and she approved.

His father, the next morning, had been less perceptive and less subtle.

"What the hell was that about?" He'd exclaimed at breakfast. Dougal had tried to explain as evenly and as impassively as possible that he'd grown tired of the second eldest Brolchain child trying to build herself up by tearing down her older sister. Instead of either accepting the answer or reading between the lines Craig Macintosh had taken to bombarding his heir and sire with questions at random times, as if he was attempting to startle a satisfactory answer out of him.

"What happened that night in the cabin?"

"Why did you yell at the Lady Catriona?"

"You suddenly defend Lady Rosalyn, does this mean you and she reached an understanding after all these years?"

Dougal had resolutely held his tongue. Now his father's questions were directed at the royal messenger in the entrance hall. The young man appeared hard worn, like he'd been riding all day and all night.

Lord Macintosh paced in front of the young man, silently reading and rereading the letter from the King, one hand tugging at his already wild hair. In combination with the bed tousle his mane and thus his appearance appeared extra fierce. He looked up as Dougal descended the stairs to stand beside his mother, wrapped in a robe as well, her dark features marred with worry as she watched her husband. Craig slowed his pacing and stopped before his wife and child, his blue eyes studying them intensely, seriously. Dougal could see the gears turning his in father's mind. He was weighing some knowledge of great importance. After a pregnant pause he closed his eyes, his beard could not quite hide the tremble of his chin as he spoke;

"Tell his Majesty that I am with him and will join him and the other Lords as soon as my Clansmen are rallied – no longer than two days." Lord Macintosh turned back to the messenger, opening his eyes.

"You must continue on this night?"

"Aye, Sir. Time is of the essence." The Lord nodded his fierce head sadly,

"Of course, of course, but before you ride again you must have something to eat and switch horses. Your mount must be ridden to high froth."1

"She is Sir, thank you Sir." The messenger said grimly. Lord Macintosh turned to Lochlan, the family's stoic butler.

"Lochlan, show this man to the kitchen and see he is well fed, then have the grooms prepare Chester, he is the fastest in the stables. Once that is done, please wake the staff. I have news I do not wish to keep from them." Lochlain nodded and silently led the messenger to the kitchens.

Lord Macintosh waited until he and his family were alone before turning to look at his wife and son.

"Craig, please, what is it?" Calleigh asked, taking her husband's large hand in her own shaking grip. For a moment the blustery lord was silent, blinking back tears as he gazed into his wife's wide, worried face. He took a deep breath.

"The North has again been invaded and Lord MacGuffin is besieged. The enemy seems to have vast, untold numbers. His Majesty has declared war to help William protect the land. We are to join the Lord MacGuffin as soon as we can."

Dougal felt his stomach drop and his heart seize.

War.

* * *

1 Horses froth at the mouth during physical exertion, when the horse's mouth is relaxed and it is accepting of the bit (the thing that goes in its mouth the reins are attached to). A lot of foam may make the horse look slightly mad but it indicates that it is being properly worked.


	9. Chapter 9

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Nine

_Love and war are really not that different, they both change everything.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

Dougal did not get a wink of sleep after the messenger left the castle. The family had stood together in near silence for a long time, Calleigh's face buried in her husband's chest. Lord Macintosh's lean arms wrapped tightly around his bride, holding her up and holding her close. Dougal had stood nearby, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Numb. He was numb. Eventually they could not stand any longer; Calleigh had cried herself out and was now as weak as a newborn kitten.

"Get some sleep, son." Craig said sadly as he helped his wife back to their chambers.

Dougal had returned to his chambers, he had extinguished the light and he had laid down but he had not slept.

War.

War was a major part of his family's history. War was major part of his country's history. War was a part of his own history. The first toy he recalled receiving was a small wooden sword. Growing up he had held his father's flail, sword, bow, and axe as he and the other Lords had sparred. Battle training and strategy and weaponry had been as much a part of his education as reading and writing. Yet here it was, staring him in the face. He thought he was prepared. He thought he would be ready for the day when he would be called to battle.

He was not ready.

Dougal had not been to Brolchain House since that wretched morning over a month ago. As he passed the formal front room he winced, the memories flooded him for a moment. Those were soon driven from his mind as he and his father were shown into Laird Brolchain's personal study. Dougal stood behind his father, straight and stiff, the tension in his stomach the only thing from keeping him from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. He watched as the color drained from Thomas Brolchain's usual tan skin as he read and reread the call. The paper slipped from his blunt hands and fell silently to the desk.

"We must go." The Laird said.

"Aye, Tom." Craig nodded, "Will you join me?"

"I will." And Dougal knew he would, Brolchain's fierce loyalty was as well-known as his temper.

"Thank you."

Rosalyn was rudely pulled from the first long sleep she had had in weeks, as well as a frustrating, teasing dream involving honey, Dougal, and a private cabin in the snow, by the high pitched squabbles of her sisters.

"Iona! Iona I need you!"

"I get her first!"

"I-O-NAH! NOW!"

"Dougal is here? What is Dougal doing here?" Rosalyn sat up, her sheets tied in knots about her legs. It was early yet, the light in her room was still tinted pink and it was cool and damp.

_Dougal was here? Now? Whatever for?_ Outside her window she could see the figures of Lord and Laird Macintosh riding down the lane to the stables.

Rosalyn flopped back on her bed. Whatever reason he was here for she would not be allowed in the same room with him. It had been six weeks since the banquet and her mother still refused to unground her. At first it had been as if she was certain that if Rosalyn was in the same space as Dougal another blizzard would come crashing down on them. Now there was no way she would be allowed in the same room as the Laird for the crops could not withstand another hail storm like the one they had had after the dinner party two weeks ago. Agnes had told her in secret what had sparked such fury in their sister but Rosalyn could not believe it, not fully. But now it didn't matter, she was not thinking of what had or had not been said, the only thing she was thinking about was seeing him again. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands Rosalyn decided.

After nearly twenty years she knew every secluded corner of the house. She only wanted to see him after all. Quickly Rosalyn threw a simple gown on over her night rail, refusing to allow her mind to wonder to the last time she had dressed in the morning without a maid. Her lips, against her will, tingled none the less. On tiptoe she crept down the stairs, keeping to the shadows as Carson, their butler, ushered the Lord and Laird into the great hall.

Dougal appeared tired and strained. His narrow face was all angles and his skin had become sallow since she last saw him. Lord Macintosh appeared no healthier. Behind her on the stair she could hear the clatter of feet, cackle of voices, and swish of dresses. Her sisters would make everything worse if their paths should cross, and so Rosalyn melted into the wall, becoming next to invisible behind a great tapestry.

"Good Morning Lord Macintosh, Laird Macintosh!" Catriona crowed. In her voice Rosalyn could hear how she flipped her honey colored hair.

"Good morning Girls." Lord Macintosh's voice was flat. "Carson, might we meet with your master in private?"

"Of course, my Lord, right this way." As the sound of masculine footfall faded down the hall a frenzy of female movement followed.

"A private audience? Why does Lord Macintosh wish to speak to Papa in private?" Agnes wondered aloud.

"And why did he bring Dougal?" Fiona asked wistfully.

"Maybe the Laird has finally decided to apologize!" Catriona huffed haughtily.

"Maybe Dougal has come to ask for my hand!" Ina's comment ignited a new argument over who was prettier, who would be a better bride, and who Dougal preferred. Her sisters thus employed Rosalyn slipped from her hiding place and continued on silent bare feet to the main floor.

If the Lord wanted a truly private meeting Carson would undoubtedly show them to the study Rosalyn reasoned as she turned down the hall. The door to her father's sanctum was indeed closed tightly, but as she pressed her ear to the keyhole Rosalyn could hear Lord Macintosh's voice addressing her father gravely.

"Last night the King's messenger delivered this. The north has been invaded and William's clansmen cannot hold out much longer. It is nothing like he has ever seen…" Rosalyn leaned further into the door, straining to hear everything.

_Invasion?_

"Well! What do we have here?" Catriona's voice was poisonous but Rosalyn did her best to tune it out and focus on the serious tones on the other side of the door.

"Look at her listening at keyholes! Loot at her dress! How uncivilized!" Fiona chimed in.

"Did you try to dress yourself?" Ina added. Rosalyn closed her eyes tightly. Had Lord Macintosh just asked their father to join him? _Invasion? _

A sharp tug on her ponytail made Rosalyn's eyes water.

"Rosalyn! We're speaking to you!" Catriona taunted.

"What is going on here?" Rhiannon asked harshly from behind her daughters. Catriona, Fiona, Ina, and Agnes parted and Rosalyn, flustered and still stinging tried to get off of her knees and away from the door. She failed, hooking her toe in her hem and falling backward into the doorframe. Pain shot through her shoulder and her temple.

"Rosalyn! What are you doing?" Rhiannon demanded. As insult to injury the commotion had been heard inside the office. The door flew open and Rosalyn fell into her father. His face was ashen and etched with worried lines.

"I have news," He said seriously, his storm grey eyes seeking his wife.

"The King has called for every able bodied man to join him in the North to help Lord MacGuffin repel the invading menace." Thomas Brolchain reported evenly, looking at each of his daughters in turn. "We are at war," he continued, "I have been called to serve, as have the Lord and Laird." Rosalyn felt as if a house had been dropped on her.

War.

Beside her her mother gasped, Agnes swooned, Fiona and Ina missed the point, and Catriona wondered how this would affect her chances of marriage.

War.

Rosalyn's stomach dropped and her heart seized. Her father had been called to war.

Her eyes landed upon Dougal, who stood beside his father stiffly. Suddenly she felt overcome – nauseous, terrified, and sad – too sad to cry. Her chest ached.

Dougal had been called to war.

"We will leave by sunset tomorrow. There is much to do." Her father was speaking but she could not understand him. Her eyes remained fixed on Dougal, his gaze met hers and she did not even hear what Lord Macintosh said.

Her father was first to approach her, still standing in the door, and gently move her out of the way. Lord Macintosh passed her silently with a sad acknowledgement she could not return, her focus was still on Dougal who followed behind his father. As he passed she reached out. Her body and her mind moving independently, she captured his hand and for a moment he stopped, the world stopped, and her heart stopped. She could not speak, she knew not the words, so instead she squeezed his hand and looked straight into his eyes. For a moment he closed his eyes and then he squeezed back.

Then he was gone.

* * *

_Note: For those of you playing along at home Thomas Brolchain's curse brings heat, Rosalyn's curse brings snow/ cold weather, and Catriona's curse brings hail._

_Also, I really, really don't like Catriona. _


	10. Chapter 10

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Ten

_Sometimes you are sad because it is raining, other times it is raining because you are sad.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

The rain had not stopped since they had left the harbor four days ago. It was a steady, constant drizzle that kept the skies and moods grey. Everything was wet and everyone was cold. The rain forced them to remain on their ships – or in rare cases to sprint along the cove to visit on of the other Lord's ships, the quarters were tight and getting tighter. The ground had not flooded, yet, but it was only a matter of time, each day it became more and more saturated. The only possible benefit to the showers was that both sides were stuck in the mud; neither the Lords nor the invading horde could advance troops. And so they waited. Waiting made everything worse.

The rain was not an atmospheric condition, but instead Agnes' grief. Laird Brolchain had recognized it on the second day, his curse and the curse of his eldest daughters manifested itself with their anger, but Agnes was different. She was a sensitive soul; she felt things more deeply than anyone Dougal had ever met, even when she was but a little girl. Rosalyn had scooped her up many times when the skies had darkened and focused all of her energy into cheering the little girl, to make her feel happiness rather than sorrow. Knowing that this rain, which seemed to fall with renewed purpose every morning, was because of Agnes' anguish, weighed upon Dougal, it made his mood bleaker than had it been a simple rain. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Rosalyn standing in her father's office, her hair falling from her braid, skin drained of color, and eyes wide and worried. He could feel her hand on his and it squeezed his heart.

Nights were the worst. He used to love falling asleep to the sound of rain, the steady rhythm of it against his window and the way it made the air cool in his room always lulled him into a deeper sleep than he would have had normally; but now it made true sleep that much more elusive. Yes, he knew Agnes was sad, but what of Rosalyn? Was she afraid? Was she sad? Was she still lonely? Did she miss him?

"Dougalyalooklikehell." Gregor MacGuffin finally said one morning as he rung his great cloak out into a basin, the young Lairds had taken to waiting for the weather to break together. It was a bit like the hunting trips their fathers had taken them on when they were younger, except it was much darker. Dougal could not cover his yawn, apparently his inability to find sleep was beginning to show.

"Like you're one to talk." He flipped defensively at the larger boy. Gregor's left hand was tightly wrapped in bandages that appeared to be made from strips of his mother's dress (if the floral print was any indication), along the right side of his fleshy jaw a shallow gash ran, the scar would be faint but it would be there. His right eye was also a vivid, putrid green, the black eye healing and fading into other colors. The clan MacGuffin had been through much already.

"Yerdoin'ittoyerself,Ididn'tdothistame." Gregor was quiet, he was shy – always had been, but in the near twenty years that they had known each other he'd learned to push back.

"Why don't you just tell her?" Ennis asked; he was plucking his bow string, listening for the perfect tone and tautness.

"Oh yeah, and why don't you just tell your Mum and Dad you want to marry Bonny? Why didn't you tell them you weren't interested in the betrothal instead of trying to fail your shot?" Dougal fired back. The Laird Dingwall's towhead flew up, his pale eyes wide. Gregor shot Dougal a look, the windward son was generally very laid back, but certain topics made him go bizerk. One of those topics was Bonny Sgein.

"I tried." He fairly growled, "It didn't work – they didn't listen. After we returned from the games I proposed." Dougal and Gregor exchanged shocked expressions, Wee Dingwall continued, "She accepted me. My mother promptly dismissed her and my father saw to it she was returned to her family farm – sending her as far from me as possible." The pale Laird gripped the bow so tightly his knuckles fairly glowed white. Young MacGuffin dropped into a chair, taken aback by the announcement; Dougal dropped his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Shit. Ennis, I… I'm sorry." Ennis' hand relaxed a little on the bow.

Dougal had never met Bonny, though over the years he had seen glimpses of her going about her tasks as a lady's maid. She was quiet and efficient and unobtrusive – the perfect servant. In fact, had he not known the Laird's heart he would not have noticed the petite blonde at all. But he did know how much Ennis adored the golden haired maid and in turn how devoted she was to him.

Dougal had been surprised when Ennis had been presented as a suitor for the princess' hand, considering he and Bonny had been sharing a bed for years. He'd not been surprised, however, when Ennis had done everything in his power to fail at everything. Dumping his entire quiver had been a nice touch, but Ennis had a flair for such details – he had his own father convinced he was simple after all.

With Ennis doing everything he could to loose Dougal had known the contest was between himself and Gregor. How sick he had felt when he saw how far off the mark Young MacGuffin's shot had landed. Dougal was a good shot, but not good enough to loose. When his arrow struck so near the bull's eye he could not clamp down on his emotions. He had won the Princess and lost all hope of Rosalyn.

Well the betrothal games were no more and he had still lost Rosalyn.

"You and me both." Ennis said darkly. "A fortnight before the games she woke screaming and sobbing, in her dreams she saw a war – and from what has come to pass and what she told me I believe she foresaw _this_ war." An intense fire smoldered in his pale eyes. Dougal looked at the slight boy, his jaw hanging loose in disbelief.

"Whatdoyoumean?" Gregor asked, "Shesawthiswar?" The chair creaked as he leaned his stocky frame forward, his injured hand flexing around the bandages. Ennis set aside his weapon and began to pace, it was strange to see one so lost in thought suddenly so animated.

"That's the problem! I don't know! Not really, not enough, and now she's been sent away – nearly to Goddamn England and I cannot see her and I cannot find out more!" The outburst was followed by silence as Ennis stilled, his eyes sliding out of focus, a hand reaching up to drag through his hair until it stood on end like a tow colored paint brush.

The first few times Dougal witnessed this strange quirk of personality he had quite honestly thought the boy was mad, possessed, or simply simple. Eventually he learned that this was Ennis' thinking face. Dougal could not keep up with the mental gymnastics and logic that went with Wee Dingwall's thinking face but he did know that when next Ennis spoke the answer would be something no one would have thought of and it would also be completely accurate. One just had to wait for it.

"Rosalyn!" Rhiannon called, rapping insistently on her eldest child's bedroom door. "Rosalyn, open up please!" There was no response, not even the soft murmur of curses and the sound of an exasperated eye roll. Silence.

"Rosalyn, Sweetheart, are you alright?" Silence. Worriedly Rhiannon tried the knob; the door creaked but opened willingly.

The room was incredibly dark; the grey of the rainy day, the absence of candles, and the fire on its death bed in the grate cast the room in thick black shadows. Rhiannon slowly entered the chamber, hesitant as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

Sitting with her back against the headboard of her bed was Rosalyn. She was wrapped tightly in a blanket so that only her eyes and nose were visible, and just barely.

"Rosalyn?" Rhiannon asked stepping further into the icy chamber. The young woman made no acknowledgement, no sign that she had heard her mother or knew the other woman even existed. Her grey gaze remained fixed on the wall opposite her. She did not blink and neither did the wall.

"Sweetheart," Rhiannon tried a final time. Nothing. Resolved mother crossed the room to stoke the fire into blazing life. If her daughter would not send her away Rhiannon would stay. She would get to the bottom of this; Rosalyn had not stirred from her room in four days.

Rosalyn's eyes did not flicker; her gaze did not stray from the wall until Rhiannon placed a fair hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. Slowly. Slowly Rosalyn turned her head to look at her mother, her eyes glistened with tears. They were painfully red, the kind of red that only came from constant crying. Rhiannon pulled the blanket from her daughter's face to feel her forehead, her skin was like ice and pale as the moon. It contrasted with the circles under her eyes which were as deep and dark as the shadows around them. Thin and sickly were the only words to come to her mind as Rhiannon looked at her daughter. On the sideboard beside the bed trays of food sat untouched. Four days' worth of meals undisturbed.

"Oh, honey." Rhiannon said, pulling her eldest child into her arms. Rosalyn had no tears left to shed but that did not keep her from shaking, trembling and hiccupping.

"Mamma, did – did he truly say those things?" Rhiannon looked down at her daughter pressed into her shoulder, unsure of the question.

"Who _a leanbh_?"1

"Dougal. Did… did he truly say I was kind?" Her voice was broken and unsure. Rhiannon rubbed circles along Rosalyn's tense shoulders. The young Lord's speech was vivid in Rhiannon's mind, his words, his posture, and most of all the look in his eye as he spoke of Rosalyn. The mother remembered every detail.

"Yes dear, he did."

"He defended me to Catriona?" She asked quietly, shoulders still shaking, but less violently than before.

"Yes dear, he did."

"He truly said I was smart?" She asked, tremors stilling, voice still uncertain.

"Yes dear, he did." Rhiannon said firmly. "And he truly said you were beautiful." She pulled away so that she might look into her daughter's grey eyes as she affirmed that Dougal Macintosh had indeed said those things.

_"If you weren't so full of yourself," He continued his voice rising, "and did not spend your time trying to find ways to cut every person who tried to get near you, you'd see that I actually, strangely enough like you." His voice dropped, as he added, too quietly to be heard by anyone but his heart, "_I love you. I have for a while_."_

Rosalyn's gaze met her mother's as a memory forced itself to the forefront of her mind. That night in the cabin, it had not been a dream. New tears filled her eyes as the ache in her heart grew, her stomach swooped.

He loved her. Dougal loved her. Laughter and sobs ripped from her chest.

Of course. Of course now that he was in danger of dying she would remember.

"Sweetheart?" Rhiannon asked worriedly as her daughter continued to both laugh manically and sob uncontrollably.

"Mamma," Rosalyn chocked out, her nose running in bubbling snorts as she tried to breathe, "Mamma, he loves me."

* * *

1 A leanbh – Little one

_Author's Note: So yeah, Young MacGuffin... for the life of me, I cannot write Doric, I have no ear for accents. However, I still wanted to maintain the difficulty the average person has understanding Young MacGuffin, please forgive the methods I used, they aren't the best, I'm sure. I know it's difficult to read, it's supposed to be. These next couple of chapters have been challenging for me to write, I hope I won't let you down. Also, I'd like to emphatically and enthusiastically thank all of you kinds souls who are reading and reviewing, my life is a little completer reading your thoughts and encouragement. _


	11. Chapter 11

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Author's Note: I am terribly sorry for the delay in updating! Midterms you know, but four exams, three papers, and a presentation later here I am, in one piece. Consider this fair warning but from now through the first of 2013 updates will be less frequent, I'm trying to balance Division I athletics, senior year of college stuff, an undergraduate research thesis, and apply to graduate school while still sleeping and eating. Please bear with me, I promise I've not forgotten this story!_

* * *

Chapter Eleven

_My dear girls, just because you have eyes doesn't mean that you can see; often times the truth is right in front of you.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"_N-n-no." Soft whimpering woke Ennis from his light slumber. As his sleepy brain focused he became more aware of the trembling of the mattress. Beside him Bonny was sleeping through the last word he used to describe her slumber would be peaceful. She was trembling like a leaf in a strong wind and striking out with her hands as if someone or something was attacking her. Her full lower lip trembled as they frantically murmured words half aloud and half in the dream. Fully awake and sick with concern Ennis reached for her, his hand gentle on her velvety bare shoulder._

_Bonny sat bolt upright with such a scream that the Banshee would quake. Her breast rose and fell in sharp, quick breaths, creamy skin glistening with sweat and tears. Wide eyed she gazed about and then, when she seemed to recognize where she was she collapsed into sobs. Ennis gathered her into his lap, tucking her golden crown under his cheek and rocking her. He held her tightly, whispering into the dark endearments until she had sobbed herself silent._

_Never had he been so afraid and felt so helpless._

"_Darkness. Darkness everywhere. And blood. So much blood." She whispered, voice raw. "Fire. Ruins, and the army still advances. They will never stop." Ennis ran his hand through her trusses, again and again, it soothed her and it helped him to think._

"_Who? Who, _a chuisle mo chroí_, is this army? Where are they – are they here?"_1

"_The North," she whispered, "I fear for the North." _

"_Why are they here?" Bonny was silent, her eyes closed and breath consciously deep. Five breaths. Ten. _

"_They are looking for something."_

"Lookingforwhat? Whatdotheywant?!" Gregor demanded, "Whatdowehave?" Normally very kind and gentle, when he was angry – those rare times, Young MacGuffin was truly terrifying.

"She didn't know. These dreams continued for nights, so many nights. She described horses and weapons and death and destruction, fever and famine. But motive she could not grasp." Ennis rubbed his face and sighed. "And now she's gone and I cannot find out more."

"_What?!"_ Rhiannon Brolchain exclaimed in shock. That night at the dinner party, after his outburst Rhiannon had suspected the Laird did not hold as ill of opinion of Rosalyn as she held of him, but love? She had not seen that coming. And how and for how long had Rosalyn known? Rosalyn's laughter had turned to sincere sobs and mother had no idea how to comfort daughter. Such a fine mess they were in now.

Rosalyn's tears eventually subsided and the young woman was able to look at her mother once again, eyes a vivid red. She wiped her dripping nose on her sleeve.

"What do you mean, he loves you?" Rhiannon asked softly, pushing her daughter's wild hair back off of her tan forehead. Rosalyn's smile was bittersweet.

"That night, in the cabin, I was so exhausted from the storm I fell asleep in a chair while Dougal was telling me off." Rosalyn said staring at the intricate carving of her bedpost visible over her mother's shoulder. She deliberately left out the assistance to her slumber the whiskey had played. "He said: _"If you weren't so full of yourself, and did not spend your time trying to find ways to cut every person who tried to get near you, you'd see that I actually, strangely enough like you._" Her imitation was poor but the words came straight from her heart's memory. She continued,

"He added at the end that he loved me and that he had for a while. I thought I had dreamed this. I didn't think anything of it the next morning because surly it was a dream." She laughed a little, "I mean, Dougal Macintosh, in love with _me_? I am not as pretty or as graceful in society as the majority of the company he keeps, and above all I have been a rotten bitch to him for years." The realization of exactly how horrible she had been to him when he had not deserved it cut her like a broadsword, it sliced her in two. She had done everything in her power to treat him like dirt, and through all of this he had loved her.

"I didn't think anything about it but I've been having more dreams, I keep hearing those words and other affectionate declarations. I think they are memories - my heart reminding me of what my mind has forgotten or ignored." Rhiannon studied her daughter, trying to process the new information that was threatening to blow her mind and the assumptions she had made about her eldest child, the Laird, and their relationship. Rosalyn met her mother's confused gaze with grey eyes glowing with the light of realization. A truth that was coming from within, coming from the heart for once and not the head.

"I think these dreams are my heart trying to tell me what my head refuses to believe – about Dougal's feelings for me and…" she continued in a sotto voice, "my feelings for him."

"Didn't I kill you once already?!" Dougal roared, ramming his broadsword to the hilt into the invader's stomach. The rhythm of battle was in general too fast to study each face that passed him but the huge, deep, long scar that crossed the man's right eye had stuck with Dougal. Either two men had the same wound or somehow Dougal had killed the same man twice.

The rain had finally subsided. Agnes had either shed all the tears she had to shed or perhaps Thomas Brolchain's ire had trumped his daughter's sorrow. It was hot now, muggy from all the rain. The air was thick even before the armies met on the field. When the two did engage sweat rose quickly and covered them entirely. Dougal had never known his wrists to sweat, his elbows, and the backs of his knees. Blood and dirt clung to the moisture and caked over his body, clinging worse than paint. He was colored red-brown from the ground with white tracks of sweat streaking his face. He was not the only one covered, Wee Dingwall's pale hair was now a dirty brown - he could not get all of the mud from his scalp.

The invading horde fell rather easily, sometimes after a single blow, but the overall numbers were vast. The enemy could replace a man easily, and they did - every battle when they took the field it was as if no one in their ranks had fallen. The Scots had lost men – death, injury, disease and their numbers were dwindling.

And there was no end in sight.

Beside him on the field was the King's young General, something Kilwillie. He didn't look much older than Dougal or Ennis, yet he was as important an advisor to His Majesty as Laird Brolchain was to Lord Macintosh. According to his father the young Laird Kilwillie was the head of his family, having recently lost his father. The Kilwillie Clan had vast land holdings near the King's castle and his father's prestige had passed on to son, including the role of advisor.

If the Lords were bothered by the age of Fergus' General did not show it. Gregor, of all people, had shown the most distrust of the Laird. The Northern boy clenched as tight as a fist whenever the dark youth was near. It was worse when the raven haired youth dared speak, especially to the King. Whenever Fergus laughed (which even in the grim circumstances was often) Gregor looked as if he wanted to lob a caber at the General.

Dougal had no firm opinion himself, other than loyalty to his friend, but as the Laird skewered one of the enemy on his pike before he could land his axe on Dougal's shoulder, he was grateful the man was there.

"Thank you!" Dougal shouted over the din of horses, men, and steel. The Laird bobbed his curly black head, most of his hair plastered to his face with sweat rather than held back by the leather cord and pony tail down his back.

"You're welc-" He began but stopped mid-shout to stare at the man his spear was still lodged in. Dougal paused in question, but it did not last long. The field was shifting.

"Pay attention!" Dougal screamed, roaring off to assist Ennis whose horse had fallen. The Laird and his sudden fascination with the dead was soon erased from mind.

The third day of battle came to an unsatisfying close, the sun setting behind the hills wearily, turning the skies gold and scarlet and bittersweet – too close in shade to fresh blood to be considered beautiful. The grounds around the camp were now soaked with blood rather than rain. Those who had not perished on the field were cramped in quarters no larger than the ship's had been. The healers' tent was the worst. Cramped, noisy, smelly, and depressing wounded men crowded together hoping to live but fearing they would die the slow death of a wound. Healers were scarce and overworked. There were too many bodies and not enough beds.

Dougal's ribs ached but when he looked at the men around him, the fathers and the brothers and the lovers with holes in their sides, missing arms or legs he refused to tell the healer of the twinges he felt when he lifted his arms over his head or when he breathed too deeply.

Blood poured out of Wee Dingwall's boot as Dougal cut and tugged the leather off the Laird. Young Macintosh was not the only one too stubborn to see a doctor. Unfortunately for Ennis he actually needed one. The scream he loosed when Dougal finally removed his boot was enough to make the leeward son nauseous – if the sight of shattered bone wasn't enough already. Ennis horse had fallen, literally on Ennis' left foot and ankle; he had continued to fight until he could not stand for the pain. Dougal had carried the boy from the field under the cover offered by Laird Kilwillie's spear and Laird MacGuffin's hammer.

They were now in Ennis' small tent, Gregor pinning the squirming boy's upper body, Kilwillie holding Ennis' good leg while Dougal attempted to deal with Dingwall's fractured foot.

"There is more to be done! LET ME UP!" Ennis was growling around the leather wrapped bit they'd stuck in his mouth to keep him from biting through his tongue.

"Not right now there isn't!" Laird Kilwillie growled as Ennis tried to kick him off.

"Yes there is! They're looking for something!"

"Your foot is turned the wrong fucking direction Ennis!" Dougal screamed. Spots danced before his eyes and he mouth tasted vaguely of copper, "You can treasure hunt later but we have to set your foot!" Dougal ran his bloody hands through his bloody hair. "Christ! Where's Mrs. D when you need her?" he looked to Gregor.

Rosmerta Duncan was the most effective midwife Dougal had ever met. He didn't put much stock in magic, but if anyone was to have a magical touch it was Mother Duncan. The Duncan family was particular friends of Lord and Lady MacGuffin. Dougal could not recall all the times he, Ennis, and Gregor had sat receiving stitches or balms or kisses that could heal all of their childhood wounds. Dougal distinctly remembered how she had set his broken wrist after he'd tumbled from a tree during the summer of his eighth year. Unfortunately he couldn't remember _what_ she had done.

"Rosmertadiedfourmonthsago!" Gregor snapped. Ennis was thrashing his head into his captor's arms trying to reassert control and to channel the pain somewhere.

"What?" Laird Kilwillie shaggy head shot up. He stared at Gregor, which made the gentle giant bristle.

"RosmertaDuncandiedfourmonths ago." He growled, "AndNessaranoff!" Nessa Rose was the Duncan's only child, an apprentice to her mother. A copper haired girl if Dougal recalled. They'd always teased Gregor about her and their friendship although the MacGuffin heir had always insisted that the relationship was platonic. The growl in Gregor's voice betrayed his anxiety.

"Rosmerta Duncan has died?" The Laird repeated, letting go of Wee Dingwall's leg and promptly got kicked in the stomach.

"Hold him still!" Dougal snarled. The More Ennis struggled the more bone showed and the dizzier Dougal felt.

Eventually Dougal was able to set (in a fashion) Ennis' foot. Between the pain and the struggle the towheaded laird had passed out. Around the windward son the other three boys sat. Laird (Callum) Kilwillie (Dougal finally remembered) was lost in thought and Gregor was lost in glaring at the young General. Dougal had no idea what was going on but he did know his head was spinning and his chest was aching again.

"I must go speak with Fergus." Callum announced. In response Gregor grunted, his face as dark and grim as night. On the bed Ennis murmured his beloved's name again and again in his sleep.

"What the hell, man?" Dougal hissed once Callum's shadow faded. Gregor glowered.

"Idon'tlikehim."

"I can see that. The blind could see that. What did he do to you anyway?" Gregor shifted on his stool, giving Dougal his meaty shoulder, the sleeve of his under tunic shredded, exposing his bicep. Silence.

"Come on, Greg, it's me." Although their fathers bickered and complained and competed like bitter enemies the families had grown up friends.

"Idon'tlikehimcuzhe'sgunnamarryMerida." Gregor said softly, as if he was admitting it to _himself_ for the first time.

Dougal's jaw hit the ground.

Whispering was something Rhiannon had long gotten used to when she went into the village. Given the way the Brolchain curse made any discord very public and problematic whispers and gossip had long been a part of Rhiannon's life. This time the tone was different, more menacing, as if she was being followed by a snake. A snake on the verge of eating her as she walked down the lane. Faces hidden behind hands followed her the entire way from Brolchain House to Mother Odie's cabin. The half blind old healer herself gave Rhiannon a look so sad that the lady feared her husband had been lost in battle and no one had the heart to tell her yet.

Tucking the vile that would cure Agnes' migraines away in her pocket Rhiannon squared her shoulders. The elderly healer had not only delivered all five of Rhiannon's children but Rhiannon herself. If anyone would tell her the truth it would be Odie Fennel.

Rhiannon burst into her daughter's room like one of the furies; catching a sewing Rosalyn by such surprise she stuck her hand.

"What exactly happened that night in the cabin?" Mother demanded.

"Excuse me?" Rosalyn asked, wounded thumb stuck in her mouth.

"That night of the Banquet, when you and Dougal were alone. You _will_ tell me _everything _that happened."

"I did!" Rosalyn protested. Rhiannon pinched the bridge of her nose, her grey eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Apparently not."

"What?" Rosalyn said again, a little more shrill.

"_People seem to think you're pregnant!_"

* * *

1 A chuisle mo chroí – Pulse of my heart


	12. Chapter 12

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

_This story must be told for the final act to make sense.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"What?!" Rosalyn exclaimed her hand and sewing now completely forgotten.

"Exactly what I said when I heard such a rumor in the village!" Rhiannon said throwing her hands up in the air.

"Mother, I swear to you it is not so, I can show you the rags to prove it." Rhiannon ran her hands into her dark hair and tugged in frustration.

"I know that! I am aware of the laundry. But something must have happened; rumors do not spring out of nowhere, especially so long after the fact. If people were to think you and Dougal were improper they would have discussed it then not now." Rhiannon dropped down on the corner of Rosalyn's bed. "At the time everyone assumed nothing happened because of your venom toward the Laird. People were just thankful you hadn't killed him. Are you certain no one knows his feelings, and that no one knows that you know?" Rosalyn's fingers wrapped her ponytail around and around themselves again and again.

"I do not think so. He only told me when I had fallen asleep. Did you have any idea?" Rhiannon shook her dark head.

"None until the dinner party." A long pause as both mother and daughter played with their hair and thought.

"Well, I do not think Dougal has told anyone of his feelings and I doubt Craig or Calleigh would make up such a thing about their own son."

"I do not think my sisters knew prior to that night since Catriona, Fiona, and Ina refuse to look at me after dinner…" Rosalyn sat her hoop and embroidery aside to attack her hair with both hands. "And really I don't think my sisters are that stupid as to begin a rumor that would sully their name as well as mine. Surly they would realize that their connection to a notorious woman would ruin them as much as it would ruin me."

"You are not ruined!" Rhiannon said emphatically standing up. "How this lie got started is not important, it has begun. Now we must face it and overcome." She began to pace manically. Her hem whipped behind her as she pivoted on her heel.

"Shit, I wish your father was here. My only idea involves cracking some skulls!" Rosalyn nearly cried, she and her mother rarely saw eye to eye. Aside from hair color, eyes, and surname Rhiannon and Rosalyn had nothing in common. Although intellectually Rosalyn knew her mother would not intentionally alienate her so often she had felt on the outs as Rhiannon, Fiona, and Ina found things in common. But now Rhiannon was donning armor like a warrior maid to go and defend her to the masses.

This strange warmth of affection came to a screeching halt. They were going to have to tell her father. Writing him about this could possibly be the most humiliating thing she would face and she had once had her skirt blow up over her head in front of all the revelers at Mayball.

Worse than that someone would have to tell Dougal.

"What do you mean he's going to marry Merida?" Dougal asked, he had so many questions tumbling through his mind. _Why did Gregor even care if Merida married?_ After all hadn't he been just as annoyed with the Games as he and Ennis had been? Dougal tried to think back to any indication of anything on Young MacGuffin's part. He couldn't. His mind had been too wrapped up in thoughts of Rosalyn to pay attention to anything or anyone else.

Gregor rubbed his face with his uninjured hand, pulling at his features, buying himself time. He was clearly annoyed with himself for saying anything.

"ThewayhimandtheKingare, allthatclosebuddystuff,itislikeFergushaspickedouthi sson-in-lawandnowisgrommin'himtothefamily!"

"Even if Fergus choose Callum, the Queen decreed the Princess would marry for no less than love. And there is no way in this or the Otherworld that Merida DunBroch will fall in love because someone else told her to." Dougal wasn't the best at giving soothing advice as he was usually on the receiving end of it, but he tried his best.

"Yes,butwhenhespendssomuchtimewit hFergushegetstoseeherallthet imeandtheycouldfallinlove." Things were becoming clearer.

"So?" But he wanted to be sure.

"Iwanthertofallinlvoewithme,damnit!" Gregor exclaimed, slamming his fist down on his knee. Dougal blinked, then balked, then blinked again.

"You… and Merida? When, what, how?" _How in the name of the Dagda had he missed _that?

"Ifyespentlesstimemoaninovert hegirlwhohatesyergutsandmore timepayinattentiontaotherpeo pleyamighthavenoticed." Gregor replied astutely, rubbing a blunt finger along his cheek wound. "ButwhatdoIknow?" he added. Dougal hung his head. The other boy was right, of course. The entire tournament he'd only thought of himself and behaved badly as a result.

"Ennis! Ennis Dingwall!" No more could be said on the subject as Lord Dingwall burst into the tent, hobbling. He wore no shirt, one ponchy side was sporting fresh looking stitches, placed haphazardly over a long grazing wound. Clearly father, like son, was too stubborn to seek professional assistance.

"Robbie!" Hot on the cantankerous windward Lord's heels, was Craig Macintosh, his hawkish nose visibly broken, long, spindly fingers stained with blood. Dougal looked again at Lord Dingwall's side as if he might recognize his father's work like embroidery.

"Ennis, wake up!" Lord Dingwall pleaded, sitting beside his son on the stool Gregor vacated. He sobbed slightly as he spoke and smelled as if he had been pickled. They had probably had to have gotten him sauced before they could put needle through skin.

"Robbie, let the poor boy sleep." Craig sighed heavily; he rubbed his fractured nose and then winced.

"What's wrong with him? Why is he so pale?"

"His foot is shattered, his horse fell on it. I tried to do what I could but he would not see the healer." Dougal spoke up, his bloody hands raised in defeat.

"You-He-WHAT?" Lord Dingwall exclaimed, "He should have gone to someone who knows what they are doing!" Beside him Lord Macintosh snorted and then swore in pain. Under his breath he muttered,

"Like you're one to talk." Confirming Dougal's suspicion that his father had played seamstress.

"Gregor." Macintosh turned to the blonde boy. "Your father is trying to convince your brother that he should have the shell of his ear sewn back on while the healer can save it. They are in his tent."

"Whichbrother?"

"Alistair." Gregor rolled his blue eyes.

"He'llneverlisten, hethinksgirlswillbeattracted tothescar." Shaking his head Gregor headed to find his father and younger brother.

"Robbie." Craig commanded the older man's attention one again. "Let the boy recover and remember that you cannot walk off a foot injury." The man glowered at him. "You get some rest as well and mind those stitches; my needlepoint is not as tight as Rhona's." Craig clapped Dougal on the shoulder wearily. Pain shot through his chest but Dougal refused to let his father see him wince.

"Come on son," Craig said quietly, "rest will do us both some good."

The next morning dawned blustery, a blessed break from the rain and the heat. Dougal's chest ached but he gritted his teeth and persevered. He could at least walk, unlike Ennis, who at the very least would be on crutches for the foreseeable future, if not saddled with a cane the rest of his life. His hands and face were unscarred, unlike Gregor who would wear the memory of this war long after its conclusion.

"Fergus wishes to speak with us first thing." His father informed him, popping his head through the flaps. Dougal tried to dress himself without crying.

His Majesty, King Fergus DunBroch, was like a mountain. Tall and broad and solid. Even his Ironwood leg was impressive. His laugh was loud, deep, and frequent. He was not laughing now. His greying gingery hair was on end, as if he'd been running his mammoth hands through it all night. He was pale, blue eyes tired and bloodshot. Standing on his right was Laird Kilwillie, looking only a little better, his dark skin hiding a multitude of worries.

Dougal looked around. Wee Dingwall leaned heavily on Young MacGuffin, unable to put any weight on his left foot. Lord MacGuffin was supporting Lord Dingwall in much the same way. The older man nursing what Dougal assumed to be a massive hangover as well as the pain of stitches. Behind them the other MacGuffin boys; Alistair (half his head wrapped in another dress stripped for bandages), Neil, and Cameron, stood.

Fergus surveyed every man in turn, his blue eyes lingering on each face, meeting the gaze of his friends, his generals, and the children. The boys who undoubtedly reminded him of his own sons too young to fight and his dear warrior daughter. Given her brave spirit Dougal was half amazed Merida was not with them. He then wondered if she was and simply wearing a disguise. His thoughts on the redheads in the army and if any appeared feminine was cut short by the King.

"My Lords, my friends, I have received some information about or enemy. An explanation of their numbers and more importantly how to destroy them." A mummer rippled through the men assembled. The wake began small but soon grew into a powerful wave of sound.

"Well! What are we waiting for?" Lord Dingwall exclaimed. "Let's put these sons of bitches in the ground!" Fergus rubbed the bridge of his broke nose with a broken finger.

"We will, Robbie, but it is not that simple. This is nothing like I have heard before." He ran his hands through his hair again. "I still don't quite understand all of it, but it's the best idea I've heard in a while, considering our current numbers." He sighed, massive shoulders rising and falling heavily. "Callum, my boy, will you explain to them what you explained to me? Maybe I will get it the fourth time 'round."

Dougal shot Gregor a look as the young General moved forward. The blonde boy's jaw tightened visibly and his back was straight and stiff.

"Killing these creatures is the end of a much longer story," The General said stepping forward, holding in his hands a large leather bound book, "This story must be told for the final act to make sense."


	13. Chapter 13

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Note: Mickey Me! Your reviews and messages of encouragement are so wonderful. I'm sorry this took so long to get posted - I blame graduate school applications and a case of the flu from hell, but here it is hot off the presses. Without further ado, I give you…_

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Chapter Thirteen

_Little ones, it is difficult but you must face it, things do indeed go bump in the night.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"So often we divide man by the color of their skin, their country of origin." Young Kilwillie began, holding up his own dark hand to further his point. "These divisions, which seem so important, are in fact arbitrary when compared to other things. A black man and a white man are both still men. There are worse things to be than one of the race of man."

"Get to yer point, boy, how do we end this war?!" Lord Dingwall interrupted impatiently. He had no time for storytelling. Ennis winced at his father's ill temper. It was easy to convince the older man you were simple one just had to delay the thrust of their argument for a bit and he would be convinced you were a babbling fool.

"My point, milord, is that man is not the only species on this Earth. There are those who walk among you who are not human!" Callum fired back. "There are more things in heaven and earth, sir, than are dreamt of in your philosophy! We are not engaged in battle with a tribe of man, we are fighting _creatures_!" Lord Dingwall blinked several times, stunned to be spoken to in such a way by one so young.

"What do you mean _creatures_?" Lord MacGuffin asked gruffly, his eyes growing very large.

"I mean that though they look human they are in fact not humans, their appearance is an illusion." Callum said. "I am a seer, of a third race, neither human nor creature, but a link between the two. We, my kind and I, we can see what humans cannot; we can see through the veil, the human disguise and see the creature beneath. My family hails from Carthage, in Africa." It was the first smile the man had given since before the battle. It was a sarcastic grin as he held up a warm ironwood colored hand next to his ironwood colored face. His hazel eyes sparkled, _in case you hadn't noticed_ they seemed to say.

"We were sworn protectors of the sovereign, from the Queen Dido until Carthage's fall and then under the Empire of Rome we both protected and advised. The eldest son of my family has been a captain of the _Praetoriani_ since they began under Caesar Agustus.1 Other sons of the family also joined the army the sight is a useful advantage in battle. My family has used the sight for five generations to protect this land and the sight is what my father used in the battle of Skyfall."

"Thenareyeblind,whydidn'tyoumentioallofthisearlier?" Gregor muttered angrily under his breath so that only Ennis and Dougal could hear. Or so Dougal thought.

"The sight is not perfect Laird MacGuffin. From the first I knew this army was inhuman but I needed to kill them myself and watch their final transformation to see what monster they were. I have seen now what I need to." The look the two men exchanged could have started a war, if one was not already underway. After a tense moment, the young advisor recovered fist. He opened the great book in his hands and held it for the others to see. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded black to brown, but after obvious age the image was still vivid. The figure was human shaped but the veins and muscles were exposed, the eye sockets were empty, the mouth was gaping, jaw unhinged and lined with needle like teeth. The nostrils were slits and ears no more than holes. A monster if Dougal had ever seen one.

"The _Reavers_ are a walking disease with neither heart nor lung, only hunger.2 They will not stop until they are satisfied – with flesh and power." The dark general was terrifyingly calm given what he'd just said. _Flesh_, Dougal very much doubted by flesh Callum meant beef.

"How do we stop them?" Lord MacGuffin asked, his eyes were so wide his bushy blonde brows had all but disappeared into his unkempt hair. Callum paused, examining the massive book in his hands for a moment before answering the great man.

"To return these creatures to the earth they must be slain with the earth, Iron might stun them but it does not stop them, only wood will destroy these creatures."

"Wood." His father repeated as if he was in awe of the stupidity of it.

"Wood." Young Killwillie said firmly. "As seers my family and my kind are charged to see creatures and mortals alike for what they are and destroy the bad ones." He held up the book, "We record what we know of the creatures so future generations may know how to handle them, how to destroy them. My spear is known as the _cuspidis _carried by my kind in case they encountered such hell.3 Weapons of wood are the only way."

"Well forgive us for not having a stash of _cuspidis_ lying about!" Lord Dingwall spluttered "We are all men here, our toys were left in the nursery."

"Callum has an answer for that but I'm afraid you will not like it." Fergus said in a tone so grave Dougal hardly recognized who had spoken. The young men nodded looking old beyond his years.

"If we draw back into the woods we will have the resources to fashion weapons and buy ourselves time to do so, it will be at the cost of the ground however. To win the war we must sacrifice this place."

All eyes turned to Lord MacGuffin, who stood stock still, his blue eyes boring into Callum's hazel gaze as if he was trying to read the truth in the boy's soul. A pause so silent Dougal could hear William MacGuffin's heart breaking. This was his land, his home under siege by monsters. The wounded and dead were his friends and neighbors.

"Do it." The Lord said in a near inaudible voice. "We must do what we can to win."

Dougal's heart seized and stomach swooped, both pains independent of the ache in his ribs. _Retreat_; even to retrieve weapons, they were ceding ground – people's homes, their land, their livelihood. They were giving up. So much was lost. Such a waste.

"What are they looking for?" Ennis' voice broke the silence. The sound of every head turning to stare at the windward laird was as loud as the sea crashing against the cliffs. The towheaded twenty something stood a little taller, leaning heavily on Gregor.

"If these creatures…" He hesitated on the word, "have always been here, why rise now? If they are from somewhere else, somewhere beyond the sea, what brings them here now? Have they decimated their own land?" Only Ennis Dingwall would ask of motives, everyone else wanted to know what to do with their arrival, he wanted to know why they came. Callum gave the pale laird a dark smile.

"They are looking for someone." The seer looked directly at Gregor. "Someone you know. Rosemerta Duncan's daughter." Young MacGuffin abandoned Ennis so quickly he nearly fell over as he marched into Killwille's face. He had had his fill of the young general.

"WhataboutNessa?" He growled.

"Gregor!" his father admonished. Craig looked to his son, bristly brow raised in question. Dougal could not but shrug and wince in pain. For a man who had just admitted to being in love with the princess his reaction was visceral. His gaze steely Killwillie thrust the battered book between them.

"I am not the only one who is not who they seem to be." He replied evenly, refusing to break the Laird's gaze. It was to the man's credit that he was not intimidated although the angry laird towered over him like a small mountain. "Rosemerta Duncan was once Rosemerta Briosag of the house of Tèarmannair one of the seven ancient families."4 On the other side of Dougal and his father Thomas Brolchain broke his silent stance, from the corner of his eye Dougal could see the stoic react to the name Briosag.

"Rosemerta Duncan was one of the last in the ancient line, she was-"

"A witch!" Brolchain boomed. This excitement from one usually so composed broke the tension between Gregor and Callum. Killwillie nodded.

"This curse upon my family was placed upon the clan Brolchain by a witch my ancestor angered by the last name of Briosag." Killwillie laughed aloud at the announcement, it was a dark laugh absolutely alien in the circumstances nonetheless. Gregor returned to glaring at the General.

"Your ancestor was lucky to have survived with a mere weather curse on his head, the Tèarmannair are the strongest of the ancient houses, they are the most powerful witches in Scotland."

"These Tèarmannair, was the witch who put the spell on my Elinor one of their kin?" Fergus' voice called Callum's attention. Dougal could see Gregor flush a jealous green as the King spoke to the dark seer.

"No, the Tèarmannair have remained in the North. The enchantress of your woods is but an excentric and a daughter of the Mathan clan."5 His Majesty looked slightly put out that his dear Queen was attacked by a lesser witch.

"What does this have to do with the Duncans? Yes, Rosmerta was a witch, aren't all healers?" Lord MacGuffin asked impatiently.

"You knew?" Lord Macintosh exclaimed, Dougal imagined being quiet for so long had been painful for his father. Craig had never been one to believe in magic, Dougal remembered when he had been no more than five or seven he had encountered his first will o' the wisp while tearing after his wolfhound Bob. He'd been so excited to have seen a wisp, his father had told him it was swamp gas and he was not to go chasing nonsense. He had apparently assumed everyone shared his disbelief in magic.

"Of course, I have known Rosemerta all of my life, her mother as well. I figured all healers were witches."

"Many of them are." The seer said, stepping slightly to the side of Gregor to address his father over the boy's shoulder. "As the strongest of the ancient families they were sworn protectors of the powerful secrets of the craft. The book is called the _Leabharàraidh_ and it holds the secrets of the craft and all the power of the seven families.6 In the wrong hands the power of the book could destroy us all. I believe – I know – the _Reavers _are here for the book, with Rosemerta Duncan gone before her time the book is in grave danger."

Breathing was paining him and Dougal felt light headed but he remained standing resolutely.

"If you knew the book was in danger why did you not join up with the Duncans and prevent the daughter from running?" Ennis asked, he was now leaning on Gregor's younger brother Alistair's broad frame for support.

"First of all, Laird Dingwall, just because witches and we with the sight are of the third race, it does not mean we work together. Witches watch over their own. Secondly, I happened to be mourning the premature loss of my own, my father died about the same time Rosemerta Duncan passed. Forgive the time it took me to acclimate to my new found responsibilities." Dougal winched. The African could handle himself in a war of words as well.

"This is neither here nor there!" Fergus interrupted, his voice booming with authority. "These _creatures_ are here and they must be stopped. I don't understand how or why but if we need wooden weapons we must begin NOW." The command he took was the stuff of legend, it was what had set him apart in the Great War and why at war's end the Lords had chosen to submit to his rule. His Royal Highness His Majesty King Fergus DunBroch was a mountain of a man filled with kitties and jam most days but in battle he had an iron spine and the will to win.

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1 Praetoriani; Latin, plural, nominative – Praetorian Guard, the bodyguards for the emperors of Rome

2 Any Brown coats in the house? I couldn't resist, this is just how I see them.

3 Cuspidis: Latin, Plural, nominative, female - Spear

4 Briosag = Gaelic for Witch, I'm not very creative, Tèarmannair = Protector in Gaelic. Again sometimes I just name the Dog, Dog.

5 Mathan = I believe means bear in Gaelic. So say-ith the internet anyway.

6 Leabharàraidh = A Mash up of Book and Special.

_Note the Second: No, you've not gone crazy, I've done some editing to this chapter. I'm not 100% satisfied with this chapter, but it's important to the overall narrative I'm wishing to present._


	14. Chapter 14

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Note: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter and it will probably be edited later. This portion of the story is important to the plot but not my forte or preferred fictional playground. I really want to thank you all for taking the leap with me nonetheless._

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Chapter Fourteen

_Be careful when you play with fate, wee loves. For when you mess with fate she has a way of messing with you right back.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_Fire, smoke, greasy with the scent of death, curled into the sky chocking off heaven's light and turning day into darkest night. The hellfire roared around her, scorching her lungs, her hair, her clothes, her skin, and stinging her eyes. Beyond the flames the land was decimated, within the flames nothing stood that was not on fire. Tents, trees, people. It was hot. So hot. But she pressed on, searching, screaming,_

"Ennis! Ennis!_" she had to find him, her very soul depended on it. Their child depended on it. She ran. Shrieking. Searching. Through the woods she ran. Through the thoroughfares of the camp, between the tents, in the tents._

"Ennis! Ennis!_" Tears hot as ash clung to her face and choked her throat._

_She found him, wounded, hobbling, struggling through the fire. He was gasping. He was weak. Falling…Falling…Falling…_

"Ennis! Ennis! ENNIS!_"_

Bonny sat up in her tiny sweat soaked single bed and promptly wrenched her guts and heart out onto her blanket. Shaking and spitting, tears rolled down her cheeks like a flood. She had witnessed the death of her only love, her man, her Ennis.

In the periwinkle ughten she decided. Nan had told her once, a thousand times that she was not to mettle in the affairs of the fates, that was not the meaning of her dreams. It was not her role as prophet. Nan had told her not to mess with Fate for Fate had a way of messing right back. Bonny no longer cared, she would not allow the Fates, the Gods, or the monsters in her dreams to take her man. Not ever but certainly not while she carried his son.

Slipping from her small room she crept into her brother's. Seamus was already up and tending the farm. It had taken her nearly vomiting at her father's feet to prove to him and Seamus she was truly unwell and not above herself and too proud to work. She was glad now that her nauseas time was constant; it allowed her to remain in the house. It gave her time to plan while Mum, Da, and Seamus tended the stock.

When she'd been dismissed and sent home her father had nearly switched her for shamming the family. When she'd felt too ill to work he'd nearly thrashed her again for sloth. As she went through her brother's drawers to find a shirt she thought with bitter humor that her Da would likely switch her for running off. She didn't give a damn, not any more, not when her man needed her.

Stealing what she need she returned to her room to dress. Boots, tunic, kilt and heavy cloak. She hoped the bulk of the too big clothing would cover her feminine figure. Jamming a cap on her head she did her best to tuck her golden trusses up into it. From under her mattress she pulled the box she kept her secrets in, the love tokens Ennis had given her during their romance. Her fingers traced the crown and twined hearts of the Luckenbooth brooch. Sadly she raised it to her lips and kissed the beautifully engraved silver. Her purpose renewed she placed the promise back in her box and picked up the hand mirror he'd given her on their first anniversary. She examined her disguise. Engraved around the glass in delicate script proclaimed _Here is the most beautiful woman in the world._

Bonny laughed quietly, reflecting back in the glass was hopefully with a bit of dirt to harshen her soft jaw, was the face of a man. Returning the mirror to her box she slid the entire collection under her mattress.

"Hold on, a ghrá, I'm coming."1 She whispered, her heart fervently praying she was not too late.

The retreat had been humiliating and heart-wrenching and movement into the forest was painfully slow. Camp was now set, however. Supplies were the worst; no one had brought an axe, save what they fought with. Such finely crafted, meticulously balanced, painstakingly sharpened battleaxes biting into wood…each swing felt like a sin. Knives were abundant but carpenters scarce and so every man made his own weapons.

Toys in the nursery were better made than their weapons. Dougal was certain his new 'sword' was no more than a pointy stick of yew stripped of leaves. Ennis' arrows had fared better, the attention to detail and precision needed was exactly how the laird's brain worked. If Rosalyn's curse was the weather and his curse was his temper, Ennis' curse was obsession.

Rosalyn. Once her name flitted through is mind he was gone. Gone with worry, with longing, with loneliness. It made his heart hurt so badly he couldn't breathe.

Busy. Keeping busy kept him focused. Kept the sadness at bay. He threw himself into work. When he was exhausted Rosalyn found her way into his mind less often. It made his ribs ache but he could think of no other way. The pain was even a blessing for it kept him distracted.

This need for constant work was how Dougal Macintosh found himself trailing behind Callum, moving deeper and deeper into the dark woods.

"Where exactly are we going Kilwillie?" He asked. When they left camp he'd been under the impression they were fetching more wood for Ennis. The windward laird couldn't walk yet and would not be able to fight in the final stand (unless they rigged up a cart, Dougal was fairly certain Ennis was planning this as they were speaking) but he was making weapons. His needle like focus was a boon as he carefully measured and whittled and crafted.

"The _Reavers_ are not the only creatures in this place." Dougal paused and stared at the General.

"Did you drag me out here to look for monsters? Haven't we enough creatures after us?" The man turned.

"My family's place has always been contingent on our ability to protect the land; I will not be the one to fail."

"Can we not fight one war at a time?" He was heartily tired of killing and wanted to do nothing but lay down his sword and go home. He could not however return to his mother, his home, his…Rosalyn, until he was certain it was safe. That they were safe.

"This is my duty." The pair glared at one another for a long moment.

A high pitched mew broke the moment. A Will o' the wisp appeared between them and a trail formed, glowing in the shade. Dougal looked at the African and then back at the wisp. Neither man moved. The wisp moaned again.

"Well?" Kilwillie asked, "Shall we follow it?" Dougal's mind was filled with the memory of the last time he followed the glowing blue beacon. The cabin. The whisky. The morning. The kiss. … _You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…_

Dougal swallowed painfully.

"If we msut." Callum gave him a look, "the last time someone followed the wisps I had to fight a bear." _The last time I followed a wisp it broke my heart._

"Well if it is a bear it won't be Mor'du at least, thanks to the Queen. Let's go." As he followed Dougal began to reevaluate his position on volunteering for everything that would keep him busy.

The trail twisted and turned and wound around and eventually stopped before a small clearing. In the middle of the place where the brust was cleared was a small hut made with woven twigs and braided grass, as if it was a living part of the earth still. It would hardly have been visible if not for the scarlet and gold sparks pouring out the windows and flying through the air. Dougal felt his jaw drop open and his eyes grow wide, he looked at Callum. The General arched a brow and looked back at Dougal.

"I think we found a coven."

The door of the wicker house burst open and out stormed a caramel haired lass, magic literally crackling off her skin in snaps and pops of yellow and red.

"Stopitjuststopit. WhydoIgottadealwiththisbook? Maneverpreparedmeforthis! I can'tdealwiththisandGodsdamnitwh yIcan'tIstopglowing?!" Words rolled from her tongue with a familiar Doric lit as she screamed in frustration, pulling at her hair. The sparks flying from her fingertips got brighter and larger.

"Nessa get back in here!" A wizen woman shouted from the door, "Before you're-" Callum cleared his throat loudly. The woman turned to stare at them. "-seen." She finished weakly.

The caramel haired girl stopped her rant and turned. It'd been years since Dougal had visited Gregor at Castle MacGuffin but he'd never forgotten the little girl who'd followed them about like a pup.

"Nessa Rose?" Dougal asked, locking eyes with the still glowing girl.

* * *

_Note the second: I'd like to thank all of the wonderful reads and reviewers, everyone who has favorite and followed this little tale. I'd like to extend an extra special thank you to Wolf of the Western Woods, Marissa, KiraMizuka, Random Reviewer the Second, AbundantCurls, ShizukaRen-Hime, and Shahrezad1 for being lovely people and providing a sounding board for ideas and indulging my obsessiveness. Thank you everyone. _

_Note III: Also, this will likely be the last update of this story before the New Year. Monday is that start of my finals week and after finals I go home for four days and then fly to Egypt for two weeks. I will still be writing and thinking and planning this story but won't have a computer. So if I don't update before 2013, have a happy winter solstice, holidays which fall around it, and a wonderful New Years!_

1 My love


	15. Chapter 15

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Author's Note: HAPPY NEW YEAR! Finals are over and I am back from Egypt! So watch for updates because for me this was a working vacation, I got so much done my cousin asked what on early I was writing all the time. She read my notebook and the poor girl had to start the story at chapter ten, but it was so interesting listening to her commentary as she read. Alexa, if you've found this story I just want you to know you're an absolute dear! Also, I'd like to take this time to thank you the reader, as well as all of my reviewers, and I'd like to extend digital hugs to all of the wonderful people who have PMed me, I've loved our discussions and I promise I'll reply soon. _

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

_No one can remember which came first; the family motto or the curse, but one thing is certain, the Brolchain crest does not lie when it proclaims "Ours is the Fury"._1_  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

"AgnesRose!"2 Gregor MacGuffin's voice boomed like thunder as he stormed to stand toe to toe with the caramel haired lass from the woods. His tone made Dougal shutter, Greg was normally such a gentle, quiet, introspective lad, his fury was as rare as it was terrifying.

"Doyouhaveanyideajusthowworri edwe'vebeen? Whatwereyethinkingrunningoff likethatwithoutaword?" There was a rhythm to Gregor's accent Dougal could typically understand and follow. Except for when the larger boy was nervous or furious and then all hope was lost. Half way through Dougal lost his ear and Young MacGuffin's speech turned to gibberish. He could however still see and it was obvious even to the blind that the blonde youth was exceedingly upset.

"OhmyGodsGreg,you'renotmyfather! You'renotmykeeper!" Nessa Rose Duncan was not one to back down even from the wall of flesh that was an angry Gregor MacGuffin. She stood with her arms folded, a fraction of his height, glaring up at the Northern Laird. She'd stopped glowing but the air around her crackled with magic.

Getting the young caramel haired witch to come with them had been a feat of epic proportions. Kilwillie had not lied when he said witches and seers rarely agreed. Dougal was almost certain Callum's lineage had made negotiations worse. It'd taken threats of Reavers and military action for the witches to allow young Nessa to return to camp and the King's protection. They had been stubbornly certain that their spells could keep the book safe from Reavers and anything else. Dougal had half a mind to agree with them, the sight of six adult women and Nessa Rose crackling and glowing with power was enough to make him wish to quietly retreat in the other direction. It had not fazed Kilwillie. He'd argued, demanded, and drug the Duncan girl to the camp, complaining under his breath the entire time that superstition and religion were nothing compared to a good sword.

Nessa Rose was now at camp, Kilwillie had given her his tent so that he could guard her himself. This prospect had not improved the young witch's mood any. Her eyes blazed with indignation and sparks flew from her fingertips as she looked at Gregor.

"OhmyGodsGregyeweretenwhenDam adeyoupromise! Hewasn'tserious!" She exclaimed accent equally as thick and unintelligible.

"IgavehimmywordNessa!" Dougal looked at Gregor's father who'd come to the opening of his tent at such a commotion. A MacGuffin's word was his bond, it was a sacred oath, rarely given and never broken.3

_Dear Dougal_

_Dearest Dougal_

_Dougal_

_A ghrá_4

Around her writing desk like drifts of snow lay failed attempts at letters. They formed a blanket of white about her feet. Each one made less progress than the last. Crumpling up what felt like her hundredth false start Rosalyn lobbed the failed letter into the fire before slumping in her chair and burying her face in her hands. She sincerely had no idea how to even begin the letter, let alone how to say all that she needed to say. How could she put it gently?

_Dear Dougal,_

_Funny story, the entire village believes you impregnated me. Also did you tell me you loved me that night in the cabin because I think I remember that. I hope you did because it turns out I love you too. I just figured this out recently, amazing what a war can do. So anyway, I love you. Oh and I am not actually carrying your child so don't worry._

_Please don't die,_

_Rosalyn_

She could only take solace in knowing that her mother's pen was as uncertain as hers. Sighing Rosalyn straightened up and pulled a fresh sheet before her, she would begin again.

"How comes the production of weapons?" Fergus asked the Lords, Lairds, and Generals seated around a large stump in the middle of camp which served as a temporary table for council. Spread across the uneven surface was a rough drawing of the area with woodchips marking current positions.

"We are nearly ready your Highness."

"And what of the enemy's position? How long do we have before we _must_ be ready?" All eyes fell on the scout, filthy and hard worn.

"Three days and they will reach the forest. Nothing lives in their wake." The King's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. _Three days._ Dougal felt his head swimming at the thought.

"We will be ready then." Fergus announced, his gruff voice worried. He was remaining strong for them, for his country. But this discussion, this war was taking its toll.

The session was interrupted a time later by a bedraggled currier. Letters and news travelled slowly at the best of times but since the war began everything was made ten times worse and since they'd drawn back into the wood communication was like torture. Lord Macintosh had not heard from his wife in an age. Although he disliked showing it Craig Macintosh relied on his bride's love and support the way the elderly leaned heavily on a staff. Calleigh Macintosh held her husband up, she held him together, and was the only one who could lift him from his darker moods. There had been enough time between missives that the storm clouds were gathering on the horizons of the leeward Lord's emotions.

Dougal also missed his mother's letters. He missed them because she was his mother and he drew equal love and strength from her words but also because she, in her maternal wisdom included more than just her support. She included news of Rosalyn. Her letters and their information regarding the eldest Brolchain daughter simultaneously provided the light in him to keep going, to carry on, they also made him miss her with a sorrow so black it brought him to his knees.

Letters in hand the meeting adjourned each Lord, every husband anxious to hear from their homes and their hearts. Dougal schooled his features into an expression of mild interest as he followed his father to their tent, he would not betray the eagerness he felt. It would not do for the Lords and Generals to think him sewn into his mother's apron, nor would he give Ennis and Gregor fodder to tease him.

"Is there one for me, Da?" Dougal asked cautiously. Something in the first few lines of his wife's letter had made Lord Macintosh's face lose all color under his blue paint.

"No Dougal." His father said, brushing past him and exiting the tent without explanation. Dougal blinked, staring at the now empty door in confusion.

_Dear Rosalyn_

_Dearest Rosalyn_

_My Lady_

_A stór_5

Dougal had begun and destroyed a forest's worth of letters. A part of him felt compelled to write to her, to explain everything and bare all, let her know the truth in case he did not return from this hideous fight. A larger part of him was terrified. He was paralyzed and unable to begin but desperate to try. With their final stand but three days away he knew he had to try. Closing his eyes he took as deep a breath as his aching ribs would allow him. He began again.

"DOUGAL MACINTOSH!" His name cut through the hustle of camp like a thunder clap, Lord Macintosh's voice as raw as a tempest. Everything and everyone froze.

A hot wind slapped him in the face as Dougal exited his tent. He recognized the heat as Laird Brolchain's fury, having experienced the stoic's rage twice in once summer, but this was nothing like the heat they'd felt before. It was more – more intense, so much hotter than he'd ever imagined. And dry. So very dry. Thomas Brolchain was angry and his father wanted to see him. Dougal tried to swallow but the wind had taken all the moisture from his mouth. As he walked toward his father, who stood seething outside Laird Brolchain's tent all eyes turned to follow him. Some, like Kilwillie and the witch Nessa Rose, even came to their door to watch him. _Dead man walking_.

"Yes sir?" His father did not speak, he simply pointed with all his might and Dougal bowed his head and ducked through the tent flap.

Laird Brolchain was an impressively built man, broad in the shoulder and tall. His thick honey colored hair was kept out of his face by a cord, creating a tail as thick as a horse's down it back, falling down between his shoulder blades. His thick, bushy beard was in times of peace decorated with small braids. Like all men sworn to the Macintosh clan the Laird wore no shirt. The heat was such that Dougal was thankful for the tradition now. He understood the old legends about the Great War and the fury. Brolchain stood in the center of the tent, the poles fairly shaking with his ire.

Lord Macintosh followed his heir inside, going to stand beside Brolchain, his blue painted arms crossed over his lean chest. Both men stared at him. Dougal swallowed. Hard.

"My Lords…" He began with a stutter.

"Dougal Macintosh" His father cut him off, he was so angry he was calm. Terrifyingly calm. The wind howled outside. "Laird Brolchain and I have received reports of an appealing rumor that if it is true I swear by the Dagda I will kill you dead where you stand." Dougal felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and fall to the center of the earth.

"Craig," Laird Brolchain interjected his voice like ice despite the fire outside. "My Lady writes that a detail for certain is untrue." Brolchain's steely eyes turned from his father to him; his gaze, Rosalyn's gaze, was as grey and hard as iron and pierced him through.

"A rumor is circulating along our coast. A rumor about you and _my daughter_ they are saying she carries your child." With each word the Laird took a step closer to him. Dougal felt dizzy. Pregnant? "My wife swears Rosalyn is not with child," the Laird continued his approach until he was toe to toe with the younger man, "but these rumors begin somewhere, I must ask, Have. You. Dishonored. My. Rosalyn?" Laird Brolchain stared hard into his eyes.

"No!" Dougal exclaimed. "No, by the Gods I swear it." He swallowed thickly. The look Laird Brolchain leveled at him wrung the truth from his soul. "I-I did kiss her." He confessed cheeks aflame. "That morning after the feast - in the cabin - I kissed her and she slapped me good and proper." His father's wild brows shot up in surprise, Laird Brolchain's brows narrowed in thought. Dougal did his best to be a man and face the father and look him in the eye.

All was silent after his confession, save for the dry roaring wind beating the tent and making the banners snap on their posts. Brolchain's eyes glittered. Dougal had never experienced fear like this before. It clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach to shred his heart. Brolchain turned from him and paced, large hands clasped behind his back. He spun on his heel and surveyed him again.

"I could demand you marry my daughter for the sake of her honor because of the rumor alone, without your confession, but with it I am afraid that I must."

"NO!" It was ripped from his chest with enough force to make him see spots. Lord Macintosh's jaw fell to the ground and Laird Brolchain advanced on him as if he would strike him. The heat intensified, Brolchain was nearly on fire himself Dougal held up his hands.

"STOP! Wait! The Princess and her Majesty the Queen have declared that we are to marry for love and nothing less than love will bind me." The words tumbled from his mouth, each stepping on the other in an attempt to be first. Brolchain did stop though the wind continued to hammer and pound away at the camp.

"I love your daughter, Sir, I love her with all that I am and with all that I will be and I have for a while. My love for her grows and deepens every day and shows no signs of stopping. She is all I could ever dream of, hope for, or want. I want to marry Rosalyn but our union must be based on mutual affection. I could not live with myself if she were forced to take my hand. Unfortunately she has made it abundantly clear that she holds nothing for me in her heart but contempt." Dougal stood tall, his chest puffed proud even though on the inside it was collapsing in despair. All of his fears that night were coming to pass. He met Brolchain's gaze straight on as he spoke. He could feel his father's stare and hear how his gaping jaw echoed the wind. Another horrible silence. The lightness his soul felt bearing its greatest secret was very quickly filled with a hideous dread.

Thomas Brolchain studied the youth, his heart bare and beating before him. In her letter, after the reports of the hideous rumor, Rhiannon had included a note. One he had nearly missed for his fury. She had reported that if Laird Macintosh were to be forced into a handfast with Rosalyn she did not think their daughter would mind as much as one might expect. Rhiannon thought she might welcome the union even. She had also said that she had it on good authority that Dougal might be more in favor of the match than he let on. Thomas met Dougal's aquamarine eyes.

"Our final stand is in three days' time. If you survive you may try and win Rosalyn's love and affection before you marry."

* * *

1 All hail Game of Thrones.

2 Gold star to those who recognize the name Nessa Rose! Like I said before, I'm really not that creative, I call things what they are.

3 I have no proof, but in my world the MacGuffin's family motto is "My word is my bond."

4 A ghrá = My Love

5 A stór = My Treasure


	16. Chapter 16

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

_War is not a game, no matter what they play in the Vale.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_Dougal awoke slowly, the pale golden light of morning a gentle caress on his cheek telling him softly it was time to begin his day. The sunrise played hide and seek with him through the canopy of leaves in fiery hues of red, orange, and yellow. The fall finery casted jewel colored shadows about him and across the snowy white furs and fabrics of the bed. A broad, lazy smile split his face and he stretched long, like a cat. With a contented sigh Dougal sat up._

_He was promptly pulled back down into the plush blankets and back into the loving embrace of his wife._

"_Five more minutes." She yawned, "Stay with me another five minutes." He happily obliged, curling around her body, her dark hair blanketing across his strong, bare chest. He could feel her smile as he buried his nose into her hair, dropping a kiss onto her crown. She looked up at him and he dropped a second kiss to her lips – long, slow, and sweet. She smiled._

"_I love you. I have for a while." He told her, his forehead resting on hers so they were eye to eye. Looking straight into his sea green gaze she replied without hesitation,_

"_I love you too, Dougal. Please don't leave me. Don't go…"_

"Dougal."

"_Don't go."_

"Dougal, wake up."

"_Don't leave me."_

"Dougal, son, it's time."

"_Don't go."_

Dougal woke, his chest and heart aching, his father standing over him, and in the distance the call of drums. The sun had not risen yet, but it was awake, sending deep orange, red, and bittersweet into the harsh black night. The third day was dawning.

The wind blew, hot and dry as it blew when Laird Brolchain received his terrible letter. The Laird's anger had been as aged but the weather had not. As Dougal dawned his kilt and scabbard, both by far too restrictive in the intense heat, he remembered Rosalyn's words: _That's why it's a curse! Once it begins I have no control._

The ache in his ribs lessoned to the dull throb he had grown accustomed to but the pain in his heart only grew as his father helped him with his paint. _Our final stand is in three days' time. If you survive you may try and win Rosalyn's love and affection before you marry._ It was the morning of the stand. As he hand his clansmen fell in line he fingered the letter he pinned to the inside of his sash, hoping that the ink would not run and paper not tear from the perspiration beading on his chest. He prayed to the Gods for life. He needed to live he had a reason to live. But if he did not, should he fall in battle he had shown his father and General Kilwillie where he'd pinned his letter and received their oath that if he died his word would be delivered to Rosalyn. He had finally, after a forest of trees and a nearly sleepless night, found the words he needed her to read. All the things he wished he could tell her in person, all the things he wished he'd had the courage to say that morning. He could not dwell however for the light broke through the trees and the battle began.

To say Nessa Rose was perturbed by current circumstances was like saying it was rather warm out. First that lordly seer had threatened and demanded she return with him and Dougal Macintosh to the King's camp then they left her to cool her heels while they went to fight. She recognized the boy they had made her jailor as Ennis Dingwall, the pale, frail boy of Gregor's youth. He was now a pale apple shaped young man, his foot wrapped tightly in strips of fabric and his conversation non-existent, save for the monotone hum in the back of his throat as he worked out some problem in a spider's scrawl on a large sheet of paper. Silence suited her, since she was shut away like a child she was trying to focus herself on the Book, its secrets revealing themselves slowly to her. Mother Fennel, a wizened crone who had delivered Nessa's mother had informed her no one had been able to read the Book in a few generations. Yet as Nessa turned the pages she found the text to be very clear and legible, if written in a horribly dull style. Mother fennel said only witches the book deemed worthy could read the ancient words. That Kilwillie boy had sneered that this was probably why the Reavers had come.

Thinking of the seer aggravated Nessa further and made her fingertips glow with frustrated excess magic. She shook her head forcefully. She didn't need that distraction now. Although she could read the ancient text if did not mean the spells came easily to her. She needed to focus and to study.

The Reavers made a hideous, horrible, high-pitched howling sound as the wood pierced them. It took more blows to fell them than it did when fighting with iron but when they fell they burst into a pile of ash and were carried on the wind, their hellish howling ringing through the air. Never for as long as he would live would Dougal forget those screams. But slowly, slowly progress could be seen. Hacking, hammering away, pounding, and slashing the Reavers fell and the field turned.

The heat was unbearable. Sweat poured over him until he gleamed. It soaked his hair so that he appeared as if he'd fallen in the loch, it hung down over his features and clung to the back of his neck. His salt stinging his eyes and blurred his vision as he set about his gruesome task of making the air scream.

"Icanhealyourfoot." Nessa Rose announced, perching herself next to the windward laird as he shuffled little figures around on a crude map spread across an even cruder stump. The towheaded boy, his foot wrapped in bandage didn't reply. "I'vebeenpracticingIpromise." And she had. Her mother had been a healer and she'd watched her more times than she could count. Healing spells were familiar to her, they made sense. She could do them better than anything else.

"Please,I'mreallygoodanditdbeeasierfor youtogetaroundifyouletmefixy ou." She pressed, scooting closer to the boy. He moved a few more blocks and replied, not turning from the map.

"Forgive me for doubting you, but I saw what you did to that mouse." Nessa Rose frowned. Healing magic she understood, other magic was more difficult. Instead of making the field mouse she'd caught grow she'd made it explode into a bloody mess. She'd tried to turn a thistle yellow, her entire tent was now a vibrant shade of saffron.

"That'sadifferentmagicit'snottehsame!" She exclaimed hopping up and grabbing the knife from his belt. "Here,I'llshowyou!" She rolled up her sleeve and drug the blade deep across the pale exposed forearm. Sparks, not blood, rolled from the wound and fell to the ground in flaming droplets. The grass, desiccated and dry, caught in a flash and flames spread until the stump was in a sea of fire. Clutching her still sparking arm Nessa watched as the sea spread to the monstrous trees, aided by the arid wind.

"Oh shit."


	17. Chapter 17

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

_What the fire does not burn it makes strong.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_Ash, hot and greasy choked her until she gasped for breath and stung her eyes until the tears flowed of their own accords leaving white streaks down her soot covered face. The camp was a smoldering ruin, smoke rising off what was once tents and trees, people and animals. Charred black and broken as far as the eye could see. The sky the same coal stained color as the ground making everywhere she looked one endless night. The only movement in the hellish scape was from a figure filthy from the fire, her fawn skin grey, her scarlet dress stained, raven trusses loose from the band and flying wildly about. She was shaking, sobbing, curled around a body of a fallen warrior._

_One step. Two steps. The slain soldier was…Dougal. And sobbing uncontrollably into his chest was… Rosalyn._

Agnes Brolchain woke suddenly from her dark dream, pined to her bed by and overwhelming agony. It was a sorrow like none she'd ever felt. It was clawing and crawling inside of her, coursing through her veins and leaving an alkaline taste on her tongue. Rosalyn was suffering. Agnes could literally feel it as acutely as if her own heart was breaking. It had not been her own dream just now but Ros' private hell. Mama Odie said she was different. Cursed in a special way, unlike her sisters. The curse of the tender heart. Agnes' sympathy literally knew no bounds and took on the feelings and emotions of others. Their pane was her pain and her tears brought the rain.

Rosalyn was the only one of her sisters she felt empathetically bounded, and she was dying inside and so too Agnes felt as though she was dying. Through the pain, the longing, and the sorrow Agnes knew one thing, it was as strong as the urge to week and took the edge off and provided small comfort. Rosalyn didn't just care about Dougal. Her sister loved him. She loved him deeply.

Bonny had ridden day and most of the night for three days hoping she was not too late, following her heart, stories in the villages, and eventually one of the King's messengers. She couldn't sleep for the dreams and couldn't eat for the nausea of carrying her child. It was fine by her really, she would do anything to get to Ennis faster.

She smelled it before she saw it, the smell of fire flying on the wind, reeking as it had n her dreams. She tried to press her horse forward, spur it toward the smell but the Clydesdale refused to budge. It would not approach the smoke, after three hard days and nights it refused to obey. Bonny swore, but let the beast go. She would continue on foot.1

"Shit. Shit. Shit! Shit! SHIT!" Nessa screamed. Her arm was still sparking and the wind, hot and dry, was sending those flames of excess magic into the bush and the flame of the bush into the trees. The fire was spreading and she couldn't stop it. Not when she was on fire herself.

The Laird Dingwall was hobbling to his feet, attention finally turned from games of war.

"You are not laying a hand on my foot!" he exclaimed over the crackle and smolder around them. Raising the alarm as well as he could on a crutch he hobbled to the sick tent where healers were trying in vain to put the flames out before it took their infirmary.

"The book!" the voice from above sounded oddly like her mother but Nessa didn't care as she scrambled for the seer's tent which had been her prison. She had to save the book and hopefully the book would save her.

The victorious march back to camp did nothing to sooth Dougal's aching chest. All he could taste was blood and the howl of the Reavers' death still rang in his ears. But they had won after what had felt like an epoch of fighting. They had won. Already more creative men were beginning the ballad which would immortalize this tale. Beside him one of Lord Dingwall's men quipped,

"Finally a song to replace the Ballad of Mor'du." Dougal could not laugh, he could only wonder at the cost. Beside him Gregor walked just as heavy, his blue eyes trained on General Kilwillie with a sad anger. Kilwillie walked ahead, leaning heavily on his spear, not actually engaging with the men around him as they sang and reveled in victory. Under his breath Dougal could hear the blonde boy muttering something about heroes and honor and supernatural protectors and what princesses deserve.

Ahead of them all was King Fergus, surprisingly mellow after such a victory, he was in quiet conference with Dougal's father. Gregor's dad was beside him bickering with Lord Dingwall who leaned heavily on the other man. For the first time in a long time the only weight Dougal could see Lord MacGuffin carrying was that of Lord Dingwall's.

Thick black smoke rising from the forest brought the column to a halt. The pungent smell of burning trees, canvas, and flesh made the men break into a run. The camp was on fire.

"Ros?" Agnes called, stepping quiety into her sister's darkened room. In the firelight she could see the curled outline of Rosalyn's quivering and quaking. She was wrapped around her pillow much the same way she had been wrapped around Dougal's body in the dream. Quietly Agnes sat beside her eldest sister and ran her hand through her unbound hair much the same way Rosalyn had soothed her in her youth.

"Oh Nes." She hiccupped. "What if he falls? What if he dies and I never get to tell him?" Although she knew Agnes needed to hear for certain.

"Tell who what?" She asked feigning ignorance.

"Dougal. What if I never get to tell him that I love him?"

Bonny approached the camp with a rag tied over her mouth and nose. She could do nothing to protect her eyes from the heat and smoke and so they watered and blurred and stung. What she could see was chaos – horses and other animals running, trying to find a way out of the fiery maze of tents, their screams and cries deafening. Wounded men joined the bedlam hobbling as best they could, healers trying to carry those that could not hobble. Some tried to put out the flames but there was too little water and too large an area to smother. She drew closer, willing herself to find Ennis. Her dreams, her awful dreams from all those nights flashed again before her eyes as they became reality. She ran. Through the trees, into the camp, in and between the tents. Smoke choked her, ashes singed and stung her but she pressed on. He was close, she could feel it.

"Ennis! Ennis! ENNIS!"

Dougal's legs burned by the time he reached the camp and all he could taste was blood but it was not the time nor place for that. What few men that had remained at camp were running ragged desperately trying to put out the flames consuming the dry, dry land while at the same time save as many men, animals, and carts as they could. The King was screaming orders; dividing men so that some would save the stock, others the men, and other still try to stop the burning. He was nearly impossible to hear over the din although Dougal was beside him.

"Nessa!" To his other side Gregor stood for a moment surveying the scene before him. "NESSA!" He bellowed again, as if the witch would appear from nowhere at his words. "I'vegottofindherIpromishedherD a!" He bolted for the flames, leaving Dougal slack jawed in his wake.

"Shit." Beside him the King swore. "Gregor MacGuffin get back here, damnit! By the order of your-Sonuvabitch he isn't listening!" The King growled and squared his shoulders. "The things I do for my daughter-GREEEGOR!"

From somewhat ordered chaos utter pandemonium came as every man broke rank and bolted though the camp.

"Ennis!" She screamed again, tripping over the wreckage of a tent. The hope she'd rode off with was slowly fading to despair but she would not give up. "Ennis!"

"Bonny?" She almost had not heard him, his voice chocked and faint coming from the tent behind her. But she had.

"Ennis!" She screamed, wheeling about in time to catch him as he fell through the door.

"You're here. What are you doing here?!" He asked her with a cough, his foot was wrapped tightly in a bandage and he put next to no weight on it.

"I am getting you out of here!"

The animals were all off their tethers and left to flee, hopefully to be collected later. It was down to the transportation of wounded and not a moment too soon for the tents and trees were collapsing around them. Dougal could feel the blood in his mouth as he coughed, the smoke making him choke. His chest ached until it burned but he pressed forward.

One moment William MacGuffin was attempting to put out the fire, the next moment he heard a great pop and crack of oak above him. He looked up in time to see the massive branch begin to fall. He then became aware of the black sky above him and the stiffness associated with being tackled to the ground.

"My Lord MacGuffin, I fear we must concede the field!" General Kilwillie exclaimed, rising to his feet. Where he had been standing a moment before was now smashed beneath a heavy limb.

"Dougal! Dougal!" Lord Macintosh called for his son frantically searching. He prayed to the Gods his boy was safe, out of the flames having realized they had done all they could. But he had to be sure. In front of him a great Ash tree fell, blocking his path onward and behind him the flames were closing in and before his eyes his life began to flash – when he met Calleigh, the end of the Great War, when Dougal was born… Too small, strong hands took him by the arm and were yanking him backward. He stumbled and fell, landing unceremoniously on his ass.

The tent was humming… and a hideous shade of glowing yellow. I was completely untouched by flames. Inside was the so called witch Nessa Rose. She was cradling her arm to her stomach and giving him a wide-eyed look.

"What is going-" He began, scrambling to his feet.

"Canyouspit?" She cut him off, "I'llexplaineverythinglaterbutI mustknow, can you spit? Or pee,IneedliquidandIcan'tspit!" Her voice was doing its best to remain calm and even but the panic she was feeling still peeked through. She shoved a shallow dish into his hands.

"Please," she begged, "thebooksaystousewineandchang eittowaterforthisbutIhaven'tgotwine. IcanputthisfireoutIcan…Ican…Ican." She turned back to the massive book on the ground, the source of the humming and the glowing and pulled at her caramel colored locks, now as wild as the flames around them.

"I-" Craig began, looking bewildered down into the bowl.

The wounded who had escaped from camp, the healers, and some of those who had given up on salvaging the tent city had formed a little enclave on the other side of the low stream from the camp.

"Oh my Sun and Stars, you're alive!" Bonny exclaimed, throwing her arms around Ennis neck the moment they were across the narrow water.

"I-am-" The Laird managed between kisses, "But-why-"

"ENNIS DINGWALL" Boomed Conan, Lord Dingwall's right hand. The mountain of a man approached the embraced couple, his stone face particularly grim. "YOU ARE HERE, YET YOUR LORD FATHER HAS RETURNED TO THE FIRE TO FIND YOU." Ennis gave Bonny a horrified look as over her shoulder he could see limbs and trees falling in flames.

"I will retrieve him." Bonny announced, pulling the rag she had worn over her mouth and nose up once again.

"No Bonny!" Ennis declared, but without her shoulder for support he was forced to lean on Conan. "Send one of the men."

"I know where to find him." And she did, the dreams that had kept her up during her ride had shown her more than just Ennis. For a brief moment his pale eyes studied her, taking in more than she could ever dream of seeing.

"Please, _A chuisle mo chroí, _be careful."2

"Gregor! The witch can take care of herself!" Fergus roared, tearing after the frantic blonde. "You need to get out of here!" A tree on the other side of camp came crashing down, smashing the smoldering tents in its path. "NOW Gregor!" The boy paused.

"Ipromised!"

"So did I!" The King screamed back, grabbing his arms and dragging the boy to safety. _The things I do for my little girl._ The King thought to himself with no real malice. Young MacGuffin had shown himself to be fiercely loyal, a strong soldier, and extremely sincere and compassionate. He could not have designed a better man for his daughter nor asked for a better man to succeed him on the throne.

Bonny knew she was a fool as she darted into the flames again. She just prayed to the Gods she was a lucky fool. In her dreams she saw the Lord searching for his son near the center of camp in the smoldering wreck of a large stump. And so Bonny bolted for the place.

"Lord Dingwall! Lord DINGWALL!"

"Ennis! Ennis! ENNIS!" She had not been far off, the voice of the Windward Lord echoed through the tent poles from the south of center. The fierce wind which had fanned the flames and made them fly had come from the south and so this part of the tent city was no so badly burned, the blaze was not quite out of control. It was choked with smoke however and Bonny could hear the Lord wheezing before she could see him. He was leaning heavily on a broken tent pole, calling for his son, struggling to move forward. The hand not holding himself up was clutching his side, his fingers and tunic were soaked with blood.

"Lord Dingwall!" Bonny exclaimed rushing to take his weight from the pole and on to her shoulder. "My Lord we must get out of here!" The older man started and stared at her.

"Bonny? What are you doing here? I must find my son!"

"He is safe, he is well, now you must be the same. Come on!" He stumbled as she tried to lead him, the hand clenched to his side pressing tight, his cough louder and more violent.

"I fear, child, I will not make it." He wheezed. It was a sincerity born in fire.

"I promised Ennis you would and so you will." She replied although privately, secretly she doubted. Every step he was heavier on her shoulder and slower on his feet, he coughed and it sounded bloody.

"You really love my son." It was less a question and more a realization.

"With all that I am." Bonny replied. Just a little bit further, my Lord." They had to keep moving though he grew heavy.

"You came all this way to see him?" This time when he coughed he brought up blood. "Because you love him?"

"Because I love him." She agreed stumbling forward. In just a few more paces they would be at the edge of the tents where someone could see them and help. "I am also carrying his son."

Craig Macintosh handed over as much liquid as he could with a scandalized, skeptical look on his face.

"Alright!" The girl exclaimed, more to herself than to him. "I did start the fire and I _will_ put it out." She began to move the shallow bowl in her hands, swirling the water and murmuring in a tongue he did not recognize. Faster and faster, round and round until… he blinked. Suddenly in the girl's arms was an urn slopping full of water.

She let out the breath she had been holding and looked up at him with eyes twinkling like stars.

"It worked!" She squealed. Lord Macintosh blinked again. The girl squared her shoulders and turned to the tent's door.

The animals were all free, the men were all safe. There was only the small problem of getting himself out of the smoke. Dougal had no idea where he was. The smoke and flames obscured any landmark until he wasn't certain which way was up or down. Dougal only knew for certain his chest and throat were killing him and his palms were stained with blood from his coughing. He was dizzy but he needed to keep going. He knew he must keep going. _…if you survive you may attempt to win Rosalyn's love and affection._

"Dougal!" He wasn't entirely certain if Lord Brolchain's voice was in his head or not. "Dougal!" Though he heard his name again and could feel large calloused hands supporting his aching ribs, he was not sure. His head was swimming and it felt like he was drowning.

"Come on, lad, stay with me. My girl will never forgive me if she loses you." Brolchain was saying. His words made Dougal's feet firmer on the ground. His chest hurt so badly tears were pushed from his eyes against his will but he would not give up. He would not falter.

_Rosalyn_. He would keep going. _Rosalyn._ A cough shook his chest until he could only taste the tang of blood and under his feet he could feel the strangest sensation of water.

* * *

1 I fear Bonny is too much of an action girl. She really isn't at her core. Inside she is a mother first and foremost, however this means that any threat to her family is a threat to her and one she will neutralize immediately and aggressively.

2 _A chuisle mo chroí:_ Pulse of my heart


	18. Chapter 18

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

_There are many types of love, wee ones. There is the kind of love you feel for your mother, father, brothers, and sisters. There is the love you feel for the King and Queen. There is the love you have for your friends. And then there is a fourth love. It is a love that can rob you, break you, and leave you for dead. It is also the same love that can bring you back to life.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

Lord Macintosh watched as the caramel haired girl pitched the urn of water out the door of the tent, and the water washed over everything as if the ocean had been inside the jug. It rose in white crested waves and crashed against the trees, the tents, and destroyed everything still standing. Craig gasped. The witch turned from the tent door, awkwardly clutching the empty urn to her chest, her cheeks flushed pink.

"Fire's out." She offered weakly.

Robbie Dingwall looked at his wife's former handmaid for a full minute. They had reached the safety of the bank, and not a moment too soon. The Lord fell to his knees, both hands clutching his side, the blood on his fingers shining brightly.

"A son." He repeated slowly. "WHY IN THE NAME OF THE DAGDA DID YOU-" He exclamation was choked off by a cough, fat red drops of blood flying from his lips and staining his teeth.

"You're unwell your Grace." She dropped to her knees beside him, hoping to help in some way but unsure how. There was so much blood. "ENNIS! ENNIS! CONAN! _SOME_BODY! HELP!" She screamed until her throat felt raw and her aching lungs burned.

"I'm dying child." The old man grumbled, coughing.

"No, no, you'll be fine." Bonny protested. "GODS ENNIS! HURRY!"

"DAMNIT GIRL _I_ WOULD KNOW" More coughing, more blood. "IF _I_ WAS DYING!" His voice became much softer, almost gentle. It was the kindest tone he'd ever taken with her. It was the most he'd ever said in all her years of service. "My wound opened in battle. Craig was right; his sewing is a far cry from Rhona's." He chuckled darkly. Through the brush she could hear the crash which could only mean that the Lord's behemoth was on the way.

"Hold on your Grace, help is coming." He gripped her hand so hard her fingertips went white.

"I've lost too much blood. I was lost before the fire."

"Father?" Conan lowered a lame Ennis from his shoulder. The Lord reached for him with his free hand.

"Ennis, son, I am not long…"

"Wha-What?" The laird choked, his clear blue eyes wide with shock. Too shocked to weep. The Lord, holding both Bonny's and Ennis' hands brought them together until their fingers were twined and his hand was atop them.

"I-I just want you to know." A coughing fit overtook him and his teeth became a brighter shade of scarlet, but the Lord pushed on, "Ennis, I was wrong. I am sorry." He squeezed their hands.

"Take care of him Bonny. Take care of him." His grip loosened on their hands.

The rush of water took his feet out from underneath him and he felt himself rush with the waves. Dougal and Laird Brolchain tumbled on the waves until they washed up at the feet of Lord Macintosh.

"Dougal? Dougal!? DOUGAL!" The boy made no response. The Lord and his right hand looked at one another.

"Is he dead?"

From behind Lord Macintosh came the loud sound of rustling pages and a deep monotone hum as well as a small squeak of indignation. Laird Brolchain looked up to see the young witch wrestling with the large spell book that seemed to have developed a mind of its own. It was glowing and humming and the worn pages crossed with unrecognizable words were blowing in a strong wind that did not exist.

"Dougal, _A leanbh,_ my boy, speak to me. Open your eyes. DO SOMETHING DAMNIT!"1 Lord Macintosh shouted and shook his son until Nessa was certain he would rattle Dougal's teeth out of his head. Thankfully Laird Brolchain stopped him before the distraught father did further harm to his son. The cursed man looked to the witch expectantly.

The pages had stopped turning but the humming became more insistent. Nessa looked from the men on their knees to the book glowing in her hands and then back again.

"I-I" she stammered looking between the boy and the book a few more times. "Ithinkhe'smostlydead."

"What?" Lord Macintosh looked as if he would die himself. The witch added quickly,

"Thatmeansheisalsostillpartia llyalive." The book hummed louder. "AndifheispartiallyaliveIthin kIcansavehim." Craig Macintosh looked from his son to the girl.

"Do it." He begged.

"Holdthisplease." Nessa Rose said, handing the glowing tomb to Laird Brolchain. She took a fortifying breath and then dropped to her knees beside Dougal.

Dougal came into consciousness slowly, his awareness coming to him only a piece at a time. He was flat on his back on something soft, over his bare chest, tucked under his arms was a fur. Everything ached, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He remembered the battle and the dying howls of the Reavers. He remembered the smell of the camp engulfed in flames and the sting of smoke blinding him. And he remembered the rush of water… and nothing else. His eyelids were too heavy to open but he did his best to assess himself. His head ached and pounded as if it were a war drum. His mouth tasted awful. He had his arms and he had his legs and he could feel and wiggle his toes. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand, knuckles cracking from being still so long. His left hand he could not move but he could still feel it, it was held immobile by something soft, warm, and firm.

Dougal took a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time it did not pain him to do so. Slowly he tried to open his eyes. The room came into focus as if a fog was being lifted. Dead or dreaming. Dougal had to be dead or dreaming.

The light peeking through the closed curtains was dim and cool, cast from a sun not fully raised. The pale fingers of light stretched into the room to caress him and the small dark haired figure beside his bed. He was home, in his own room and his own bed, bundled in furs and packed with pillows. Beside him was a chair from his father's study. And curled on the cushion; her upper body draped between the chair and his mattress and legs, her hand holding his, was Rosalyn Brolchain fast asleep.

She had been sewing; he could see the hoop and fabric were draped about her feet like a blanket. For a long time he could not but stare, the sight of her like food for his heart. He gazed at her as if he were starving. Her hair had begun in a simple, neat plat over her shoulder; it was now rebelling, spilling out of the braid and around her shoulders, over his blankets. He recognized the dress she wore; it was the same pale blue frock she'd worn the day he and his father had asked Laird Brolchain for his sword and his support. It had been the last time he had seen her during his waking hours. It was the same gown but it did not fit her at all the same. Even as she lay half stretched across his bed he could see that where it once caressed her curves it now simply hung loose. Her face was relaxed in sleep, her beautiful slate eyes closed in her peaceful rest. Under her thick dark lashes he could see rings, dark circles under her eyes in shades of purple and blue. Fine lines appeared at the edges of her eyes, around her nose and mouth, her full bow lips parted slightly as she slumbered. Her skin, still the warm earthy color it had always been was more fragile looking now. She was more fragile looking now.

In all his dreams never had she appeared to him like this. In his dreams she was awake and happy, healthier looking and if she appeared in his bed she certainly was not also half folded in a chair. And yet part of him still could not believe she was here with him. Hesitantly he reached out with his right hand, he'd become weak in his bed but he needn't move too much to touch her hair, to prove to himself that she was real and he was awake and alive. He wrapped one curl around his long finger, his fair skin contrasting like day with her night colored lock. It felt like silk and heaven and hope.

_Our final stand is in three days' time. If you survive you may try and win Rosalyn's love and affection before you marry._

He had survived. He was alive. He had a chance.

Rosalyn stirred. Her storm grey eyes opened slowly, the lashes fluttering as he twisted her hair. For a beat she just stared at him, their eyes locked and unblinking, he could see the realization dawn on her, the way her eyes lit up when she recognized that he was awake forever etched into his memory.

"You're Alive!" She exclaimed, sitting up so quickly her sewing hoop was thrown under his bed. She neither noticed nor cared as she launched herself into his arms laughing, crying, and shouting,

"Dougal! Oh Dougal, you're awake! You're alive!" She touched his hands, his chest, his throat, his cheeks as if seeking assurance that he was indeed alive and awake. And then she kissed him, her arms wrapping around his neck. She kissed him with every ounce of her being.

Dougal had not known what to expect when he returned from war but this was not it. His eyes flew open, round as the harvest moon, so shocked was he his hands had nowhere to go and he forgot to breath. After far too long and not nearly long enough Rosalyn broke the kiss in favor of peppering his face with pecks punctuated with words and half thoughts.

"You're alive." "Praise the Gods." "I thought-" "I thought I'd-" "I thought I'd lost you." "Thank allfather you're alright."

Overwhelmed, he was completely overwhelmed with the sheer power of her and her… affection. If he wasn't so certain he was awake he would have sworn he was dreaming.

"Ros-" She captured his lips again, taking advantage of his open mouth to slip her tongue inside. He closed his eyes and indulged for a moment before taking control of himself. As firmly as he could in his weak state he took her shoulders and pulled her back so she was at arm's length. He needed to look at her, to see her, to see her eyes when he asked his question.

"Rosalyn?" He croaked. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked as she met his eyes. In the late depths he saw a sparkle; she was positively shining as she looked at him, beautiful as the Goddess even with the tears and running nose. She gave him a watery smile when he said her name.

"What-" he began, he had no idea what to say, what to ask, there was so many thoughts swirling in his head at the moment he felt dizzy. And then he realized this entire time he'd not been in pain.

"Why don't my ribs hurt?" He blurted and then blinked. He hadn't a clue what he'd wanted to say first to her upon their reunion, but that wasn't it. Rosalyn stared at him, he could feel her shaking and terror that he made her cry harder gripped him, but she was laughing. She was laughing a hysterical, hiccupping, silent laugh as unattractively beautiful as she was with her tears and red nose.

"Ros-"

"Milord!" Standing in his doorway in shock was Lachlan, the family's faithful servant. He'd undoubtedly heard Rosalyn's sobbing laughter. The girl, half sprawled on him and still crying turned to the older man.

"Lachlan, please fetch your master and tell him his son's ribs don't hurt." Her voice cracked. The butler paused a moment, surveying the scene with a wide eyed smile before hurrying off to find his lord and lady.

Rosalyn turned her attention back to him, brushing a lock from his forehead with a gentle hand.

"I thought I'd lost you." She told him softly, her fingers tracing along him temple over his cheek and along his jaw. Dougal leaned into her touch and slid one hand from her shoulder up to cup her jaw.

"I think you almost did." His voice was raw from smoke, screaming, and sleep. New tears fell and with the pad of his thumb he brushed them away, cupping her face in his hands the way he'd imagined for so long. He rested his forehead on hers and looked her in the eye.

"Hey, now, _Mo muirnín_, none of that. I'm alive and I am well."2

"Dougal!" Lachlan had found Lord and Lady Macintosh, the noble couple nearly wedged themselves in the door as both tried to rush through to see their son. As they approached the bed with only slightly less reserve than she had had Rosalyn gave him one last smile and a chaste kiss on the forehead before slipping from his arms. She was replaced by both Macintosh parents.

"I'll… um…" Rosalyn began; eyes and nose red from crying, cheeks flushed with excitement. "I'll give you some privacy, go and ready my things to return home." Calleigh Macintosh looked up from her son's crown where her face was buried to meet the young woman's eye.

"Please, have a rest or better yet finally eat something but do not feel that you must leave us right away." Rosalyn bit her lower lip and nodded.

"Thank you, m'lady, I will." His mother's attention returned to him and his father as the young woman shut the bedroom door quietly behind her.

"Not so tight, Craig, we do not need to break him again." She scolded her husband playfully, joyful tears in her eyes. As soon as his father released him however she launched her own massive hug.

"About that, DOUGAL MACINTOSH WHAT WERE YOU THINKING NOT GETTING HELP FOR YOUR RIBS?! YOU ALMOST DIED BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO STUPID STUBBORN TO SEE A HEALER." Craig roared, flailing his arms about in outrage. Dougal blinked. He had no response.

"Craig, please, he's just woken up." Calleigh said releasing her boy and sitting back beside his hip, her husband seated on her other side. "Your ribs were like someone had put an urn in a sack and tossed it down the stairs. It was a wonder you lasted as long as you did." His mother explained her tone softer than her blustery husband's. Dougal blinked again. The joys he found in waking were fading into confusion and uncertainty. He rubbed his eyes and drug his hands down his face.

"When did I grow a beard?" he asked aloud, his hands finding coarse hair under his palms rather than smooth jaw. Both his parents burst into laughter but it quickly was killed and their expressions turned serious.

"Son," Lord Macintosh began, "you've not been with us nigh a fortnight."

"What?!"

"Aye, we were afraid you'd never wake, the witch had warned it was possible. You gave us all quite the scare m'boy."

"I don't understand."

Calleigh looked at Craig who tunneled his willowy hands through his wild hair, pulling at it.

"What do you remember?" The Lord asked the Laird after a long pause. Dougal closed his eyes. What did he remember?" And what was memory and what was nightmare?

The hot, greasy stench of flames assaulted his memory and his stomach churned.

"The fire." He managed without losing himself. "The world was on fire." He'd been lost and in so much pain, unable to escape the black smoke and burning tents.

"Not the world, just our camp. That witch of MacGuffin's apparently even she did not know she had fire for blood. Caught the forest on fire she did, foolish girl."3 Lord Macintosh began, he could still see that girl staring wide eyed at the wildfire surrounding them. He could hear her muttering and chanting as she saved his son.

"She also put the fire out with a spell that flooded the entire wood." Craig continued. "That is how we found you." He closed his eyes and swallowed. This was one of the many memories of war that haunted his nights, Laird Brolchain holding the crumpled mass that was his son. His child, his only child, broken, bloody, and barely breathing.

"You wouldn't wake up you… you…" Calleigh took her husband's hand as he struggled to find the words. She did her best to be strong for him and to give him comfort.

"The witch said you were mostly dead but that you were also partially alive – a little part of you was still holding on and she could save that part of you – she could save you."4 Dougal had died in that camp if just for a moment. Craig hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep since.

Dougal stared at his parents, unable to believe what his father was saying but also not doubting a word. He'd been mostly dead. The caramel haired girl from his youth that had followed Gregor like a puppy when they played had saved him.

"That damn book of hers had some spell. She said if you were to live you needed to heel. You glowed. You glowed for nearly a week. Unresponsive… just glowing." Dougal's ribs had been fractured, his insides bleeding. The healers had said he was a mess of injuries and the stupid boy had taken care of everyone else's wounds but his own. Craig could have killed him if he'd not been dead already.

"Your father and Laird Brolchain brought you home." Calleigh continued. "When you didn't wake after you stopped glowing we feared the worst. And then your dreams came and our fears changed." Oh how he had screamed! The first night he'd nearly brought the castle down with everyone convinced the worst had befallen him. It was Craig's turn to squeeze Calleigh's hand. He knew his son's horror, he'd seen it, he'd shared it, and it haunted him as well.

Dougal felt ill, he remembered his dreams. They had been full of Reavers and fire, death and dying. And Rosalyn, always Rosalyn, although he could never reach her. He could never save her.

"Aye, lad in case you hadn't frightened us enough no one could wake you and we could bring you no comfort." Craig continued. His poor Calleigh had been caught between both their nightmares and was helpless to sooth them.

"You called for Rosalyn, Dougal, every night. I am afraid every servant now knows your secret." Young Macintosh nodded, why not share his humiliation? He'd also laid himself bare before her father and his.

"After three nights of such calls, we summoned her, at a loss as to what to do." He was amazed his blush did not catch his bedding on fire. Yes she had been there when he woke and thus must have arrived some time and somehow but the story of how she joined him still flustered him. How weak he must seem to beg for her even after she had rejected him.

"She could not wake you." Calleigh continued "But she succeeded in calming you where we had failed." Dougal remembered other dreams, fainter, less vivid and raw than his nightly terrors. He had heard her voice, felt her touch, smelled her sent, and tasted once again her lips. Perhaps they had not been dreams after all.

"We have given her the room across the hall but I don't believe she has purposely left your side since the first night she arrived." Lachlan and Craig had given up carrying her back to her chambers when they found her asleep beside Dougal after the third night. It both broke and gladdened the Lord's heart to see how devoted the eldest Brolchain was to Dougal. Craig liked the girl, he had come to know her well over this ordeal and he could see that she cared deeply for his son. She loved him for his flaws. She knew them and she accepted them. She accepted his weakness and her devotion was to Dougal, not the handsome, athletic only son of the wealthy local Lord. It was the kind of support Dougal would need to be a successful Lord in his own right. It was the support Craig had found in Calleigh, although he did not know he would be so lucky when he married her.

"How…How long has she…" Dougal began, attempting to make sense of the new information.

"Short a week." Calleigh replied, taking her son's hand in both of hers. In that time the cursed girl had confided in Calleigh. She had confessed her heart – her whole heart one evening while rain poured from the skies like tears from heaven. She told the older woman how she had first thought her son spoiled, immature, and arrogant and how she felt he'd grown into a libertine. She told her of how she'd over heard the things Dougal had told his friends and how deeply she'd been hurt by another pretty person – like her sisters – mocking her. _Her? Sean, I've not had enough to drink to even consider dancing with her. _ She'd also told her of the night of the party – the dance and how Dougal had tried to get her to come with him back to the castle and had tried to keep her safe and how he'd taken care of her. She confessed to the whiskey and to his kiss. Also to their conversation and how it had been the first time in her life that she had seen _him_ not the character he played and hid behind. She had been in tears, terrified Dougal would die before she could apologize, before she could thank him, and before she could tell him that she had changed. That she had seen a man in that cabin that she could love.

"Does she know of her father's decision?" Dougal asked, his heart sinking. She was here with him now and it had given him such hope. He could not bear it if this was all some obedience to her father and the man she was being forced to wed. His mother's grip became tighter on his hand and she looked him straight in the eye, as if she could read his thoughts in his aqua gaze.

"No Dougal, she does not." She told him firmly and then added softly, "She is here for you."

* * *

1 _A leanbh_ = Little One

2 _Mo muirnín =_ My Darling

3 Nessa Rose is sixteen and like most teens rides the struggle bus frequently.

4 Nessa Rose is also a regular Miracle Max.

_I had an English teacher in high school who once told us that killing off important characters was a sign of sloppy writing, but who always listens to their teacher? I do sincerely apologize and mourn for Lord Dingwall, he was a good man. Unfortunately good men die in war. But I promise this is more the comedy than the tragedy which means more characters will marry than will die. The story isn't over yet!_


	19. Chapter 19

A Merry War

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_AN: I AM SO SORRY THAT I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN FOREVER! Real life has been a real bear of late and unfortunately this story got taken off the stove for a bit while I tried to get my personal life as under control as the fictional lives I write about. Hopefully things will be better from now on and I will update sooner. This story is drawing to an end but it isn't over yet!_

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

_Love, they say, is blind. I, on the other hand, believe love is all about seeing. It is about seeing the person within the person, it's about seeing with your heart.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

_The howls of the Reavers press on him from all sides, their sickening shrill screams getting closer and closer. He ran, he had no wood, no weapon, nothing to defend himself with except for a jug of whiskey and a blanket. No matter how fast he runs he cannot shake the monsters._

_Then THERE from the corner of his eye he sees a flair of blue, the tiny moan of a wisp. He bolted for the glow, praying that the Will o' the Wisp would not fail him. They formed a winding trail through a forest black as pitch. He could see nothing but the wisps before him but the Reavers still followed, grabbing at his legs, his arms, pulling at him, holding him. He couldn't see, could hardly move._

_The world was on fire, it exploded before his eyes violent and vivid. He comes to a ravine, a deep craggy gorge ripped unevenly through the earth. The wisps stop, he stops, the Reavers continue their charge and there on the other side is Rosalyn surrounded by flames._

"_Rosalyn!" He screams. _"Rosalyn! ROSALYN!"

"Dougal!"_ He was being shaken; he could hear his name over the earthquake. _"Dougal!"

"Dougal!" He opened his eyes with a jolt and his frantic cerulean gaze was met with grey. Taking a deep shaking breath he realized he was in bed, the blankets and furs knotted about his legs. Rosalyn was leaning over him, her hands cool on his flushed shoulders.

"It was a dream, just a dream." She says softly, smoothing his sweaty hair back from his face. "It's okay now _A ghrá_ you're safe. I promise, you're safe."1 Her voice was calm but he could see the worry in her eyes, etching lines across her brow. He took her hand in his and held it tight, she was his anchor and if he let go he'd be lost.

"Would you… would you stay?" He asked. If he let go he might not be able to protect her. She gave him a wobbly smile and squeezed the hand that held hers.

"Of course." She said before kissing his forehead and pulling up a chair. He shook his head and slid over in his bed, feeling bold. She'd slept in a chair too many nights on his account. She gave him another smile, a bit shyer. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"Please." He whispered. She nodded then and straightened his bedding, re-tucking him into the plush furs. She then took another blanket from the chest at the foot of his bed and lay down next to him atop his covers, wrapping the blanket around her. She curled on her side and rested her dark head on his shoulder, her hand settling over his heart.

It was not the first time she had shared his bed but it was the first time they had both been conscious as she curled around him. It made everything different, but as she drifted off to sleep she firmly believed it was for the best.

Sunlight crept through the curtains, pale fingers caressing his cheek, pulling him from sleep. A comfortable weight was draped across his chest, his senses filled with the smell of pine and cool, dark woods. Dougal opened his eyes, his bed was bathed in brilliant shakes of scarlet and gold as the sun shone through his curtains.

"Good morning." Rosalyn whispered, smiling up at him, head pillowed on his chest. He smiled back.

"Good morning my dear."

She retreated to her room to change and break her fast with his parents. They had fallen into a rhythm in the time he'd been awake. She ate every morning with his parents and returned to her rooms to dress and then never left his side. In the mornings she would sew and they would talk – talk about everything. How their night was, what she had discussed and discovered from the Lord and his Lady that morning, what she was embroidering. On more than one occasion he'd found a cloth and needle thrust into his hands. She'd shown him the basics of mending and needlecraft. He recognized the first stitches she'd shown him as the same ones his father had employed in stitching up the late Lord Dingwall. The memory of the older man in mind Dougal practiced making his stitches extra tight. The second day he had been awake his father had informed him of all that had transpired after the final battle and while he was unresponsive – Robbie Dingwall's reconciliation and death, the wedding of the new Lord Ennis Dingwall and the pregnancy of his Lady. The way the Princess had taken an interest in helping rebuild the North and the new bone of contention between the eldest MacGuffin and the King's Seer in the form of Nessa Rose.

Rosalyn always took luncheon in his room. They would talk as they ate, she constantly fussing that he should eat more to regain his strength and he fussing right back that she should heed her own advice. They had reached a stalemate followed by a compromise. He would eat however much she would eat. She spent the rest of their luncheons together seeing how far she could push him and he matched her bite for bite with ease. Slowly but surely she regained some of the weight that had hollowed her cheeks.

After lunch he would exercise – or attempt to. She stayed off to the side and offered encouragement as every day Lachlan and his father helped him out of bed and supported him as they walked about the room and down the hall. Day by day he found himself leaning less and less on the men who raised him. Once he was no longer putting all his weight on his companions and instead only needed a guiding hand Rosalyn became the one to help him. Her arm linked with his they took turns about the house, and once the grounds had dried from the flash flood that had ravaged the village while he was asleep, the gardens around the castle. As they walked he showed her all of the places he had found as a lone boy left to his own devices and she shared with him what memories she had of his home - the Garden party blizzards and May pole disasters.

Despite proving time and again he could stand on his own two feet for extended periods of time, that he could walk and take the stairs almost as well as he had before the war when they returned from his exercise Rosalyn always forced him back into bed for more rest. He'd complained on more than one occasion that he'd had enough rest for a lifetime but she refused to capitulate. She remained by his side to ensure he would remain abed. Sometimes she would continue her sewing from the morning, other tines she would read. On occasion she would read out loud to him. He always fell asleep, even when he wanted to stay awake. Rosalyn was always there when he woke up. Always. Very often she was exactly as she had been when he fell asleep, still sewing and humming to herself or reading in the midday sun. But sometimes, sometimes when he woke he found her not in the chair beside his bed but asleep herself, curled to his side. Those times, those rare times he was content to lay down again and fall back asleep.

The rest of the afternoon they spent reading, or talking with books open in their laps. They'd read passages aloud and discuss their opinions of the characters. On occasions they received letters they would share them with one another.

"We had worried at first that my Lady Mother would, in her grief, throw herself on my Father's funeral pyre rather than live without the Lord. I am happy to say she did not, although when she learned of my firm resolve to marry my bonnie Bonny and of my _A ghrá geal_'s condition I believe she regretted passing up the flames."2 Dougal read aloud from Ennis' letter. He was propped against the headboard, decoding the windward Laird's (Windward Lord's he corrected himself) spider scrawl handwriting by the waning light of the late day sun. Rosalyn sat in her chair beside him embroidering a border of intricate knots in golden thread along the edge of a piece of beautiful deep green fabric. It was for a dress he had thought she'd said, but he had been distracted by the way the sun through his window brought out the fiery red tones in her dark hair.

"For nigh a week Mother refused to accept my decision, and even now that she acknowledges Bonny in the house she refuses to accept that through my marriage her former Lady's Maid will now be her mistress and the Lady of Castle Dingwall. I wish she were not so stubborn but there is nothing she can do now, save being obstinate, with my Father's death I am Lord of these lands." Dougal continued.

"I wish you were able to attend our hand-fast and celebrate my joy in finally wedding the woman my heart desires. But given my Lady's condition, and my own impatience I cannot wait until you are up and about. Our celebration will have to wait until your wedding, which given everything we have gone through will be sooner rather than later I suspect. I should very much like to meet this girl who's had such power over you…." Dougal trailed off, face burning hot. Ennis continued to tease him for several more lines. He'd not meant to read the words out loud to the very woman that they referred. He looked at Rosalyn who appeared unaffected as she threaded her needle.

"When you reply please include my congratulations and warm wishes for their marriage." She said lightly looking up from her sewing, needle now threaded. "And tell him I look forward to meeting him and his lady." Her grey eyes sparkled mischievously. He felt his jaw drop open slightly and hang there as she changed the subject.

Lord and Lady Macintosh spent as much time as they could throughout the day with their son, both utterly thankful to have him awake and alive. Every evening meal they took in his chambers, it made Dougal's heart soar to see how easily Rosalyn interacted with his parents, how comfortable they were together. When Dougal was well enough to propose he knew Rosalyn would fit seamlessly into his family. It was one less obstacle for him to face. He only had to deal with her cursed family and to have her say yes and they could be on the road to eternal happiness. But he was getting ahead of himself; he must first get well enough to propose properly.

At night she would retire to her chambers across the hall, one of the few times she would leave his side. Each night at the first sight of a yawn she would leave him so he might get some sleep. He did his best to disguise his tiredness but to no avail, she always left too soon.

"Good Night Dougal." She would tell him softly as she leaned forward to brush her lips across his forehead. She was never miserly with her touch but only at night, before bed did she ever kiss him. It was always a fleeting, chaste touch but it made his heart flutter nonetheless.

"Good night Rosalyn."

With each passing day he grew stronger and with each passing day his time with Rosalyn grew shorter.

"Rosalyn will be returning home on the morrow." His father informed him the beginning of his third week in the waking world. "You are almost fully healed, there is little she can do for you and she has been gone too long from her home." Rosalyn was sewing with his Lady Mother, indulging Calleigh's fantasies of a daughter while Craig spoke candidly with his son.

"Laird Brolchain allowed you the luxury of wooing Rosalyn before you wed. He gave you some time but expects you to reach an understanding soon. He only allowed her here with you because he knows your hand-fast is inevitable." The Lord continued meeting his son's gaze with steady blue eyes. "Now is the time if you want to _ask_ her to marry you rather than have her father _tell_ her to do so." Dougal nodded.

_Today's the day._

_But how?_

Over their two weeks together Dougal had though things had progressed in his favor. They could talk about everything and they did, conversation flowing easier between them in the last eighteen days than in the previous eighteen years. She was open with her touch and generous with endearments and sometimes when the light caught her just right he was certain he saw affection in her eyes. The way she kissed him good night… And yet now that he prepared to act he felt doubt creep over him and settle about his shoulders like a millstone.

"Rosalyn." Dougal said, breaking the comfortable silence. They had been taking his daily walk through the wooded park surrounding the Castle. A lifetime ago they had screamed and argued with one another while snow fell thick and heavy about them. Today it was sunny and warm and instead of running from him Rosalyn Brolchain walked arm in arm with him. They stopped under a large, mighty oak its branches stretching to the sky and shading the path. Rosalyn looked up at him, a smile twinkling in her grey eyes.

_It's now or never._

_Shit, but how to begin?_

"Rosalyn." He said again, taking her hand in his. "I must thank you for the care you've given me these past weeks."

"It was the least I could do Dougal, after all that I have done-"

"Ros-"

"I treated you horribly for _so long_ and you didn't deserve it. I was proud and I was hateful and you loved me and I…" her voice trailed off in tears. Dougal blinked. This proposal was not going as he had planned at all.

"Father told you."

"You told me, that night in the cabin." She looked away from him, blinking back the emotions in her eyes.

"You heard that?" he breathed; he had thought she had fallen asleep before his confession.

"My heart did and it was much softened." She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "In the cabin I met a man of so much worth. A funny, generous, sincere, kind person. I met someone I liked and wanted to know better. I saw you for the first time, not the person you pretend to be. I saw you and I am so sorry I did not see you before." Her eyes looked straight into his with an open, honest gaze. In that moment Dougal felt like she saw all of him. In that moment he felt like he saw all of her.

"Rosalyn don't you see, all that I am I am because of you. You make me a better person. I do love you, I've loved you for so long I cannot remember when I began and I know that I will never stop loving you. I will love you forever, without end." Fat tears slipped from the corners of Rosalyn's eyes, Dougal could not bear to see them fall and so he cupped her cheeks in his hands and wiped away her sorrow.

"Oh Dougal, I confess I did not in the past love you as you loved me but… I thought I lost you." She whispered. "And I realized that I love you now. I love you more, and better, and more deeply than I have ever loved anyone or anything before. I love you Dougal Macintosh. Completely."

He kissed her and it was like coming up for air. Her lips parted under his and their tongues met and mingled as they had that morning in the cabin. Except this was better. Way better. She loved him. She. Loved. Him.

Eventually they had to come up for literal air as opposed to metaphoric air. They were both panting when they broke the kiss. Dougal's hands had tunneled into her dark hair, her hands clung to his bare shoulders. As their breathing returned to normal he rested his forehead on hers and looked into her eyes.

"Marry me." He pleaded, holding her close. "Please, Rosalyn. Marry me." She kissed him. It was the kind of kiss that said it all.

"Yes. A thousand times yes."

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1 _A ghrá_: My love

2 A ghrá geal = My beloved


	20. Chapter 20

A Merry War

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Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.

Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.

_Author's Note: Real life continues to get in the way of fictional life, and I am sorry. I intend to write an epilogue, if I ever have time to but this chapter concludes the story. I would like to say up front that I know absolutely nothing about marriage rituals aside from being a bride's maid a few times so please excuse this chapter I made it all up. . I also want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me through all of this and for all of your kind reviews and intelligent conversation via PM._

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Chapter Twenty

_You will never marry until you learn to love someone more than you love yourself.  
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch_

Scotland in all her history had never experienced weather like it experienced in the month between the engagement of Laird Dougal Macintosh to the eldest daughter of Laird Thomas Brolchain and the hand-fast. Fist sized hail beat down upon the land while wind lashed at everything that was not tied down, lightning storms split the night with angry jagged forks of fire. Never had so many Brolchains been angered at once, and never, the people prayed, would so many ever be angered again. For their parts the bride and groom were too happy to mind the weather, and their happiness triumphed in the end for not a cloud marred the sky the day of the wedding.

Dougal bounced on the balls of his feet. His parents had been married in this stone circle as had the Laird and Lady Brolchain, as had nearly every couple before them and every couple after.

"Stopfidgeting." Gregor admonished beside him. After purposing to and being accepted by Rosalyn and the show of asking her father's permission Dougal had wanted nothing so much as a quick wedding. He had waited years for her affection and came back from the dead to marry her. The last thing he wanted to do was wait for ages.

They had talked him into waiting. Delaying the nuptials allowed more people to attend, although it pushed the wedding date into Lady Dingwall's confinement, it gave Gregor and the rest of Clan MacGuffin time to arrive and celebrate with them. Young MacGuffin stood up beside him as his best man; they were Brothers in Arms if not in blood. The wait also allowed the Royal family time to arrive, the King himself offered to officiate the ceremony. This gesture sent his parents and the Laird and Lady Brolchain into a further flurry of planning. It seemed he and the bride would have no say in their nuptials and so Dougal very willingly removed himself from the planning process. Being a groom was surprisingly easy.

Being a bride, however, was proving to be difficult. His poor Rosalyn, she had so very little support at home. He had never been so glad to see the princess as he was now; she was staying with the Brolchains and proving to be a valuable ally. He tried to be as supportive as he could but the wind, hail, and lightening made seeing his future wife difficult. Dougal continued to bounce on his heels, he'd waited for ages and he didn't want to wait any more.

"Dougal." Gregor warned.

"I'll go see if they're ready, Lad, try to hold still." King Fergus said with a smile and a short squeeze of his shoulder with a massive hand.

"I must apologize to you, Lady Rosalyn." The Princess Merida said softly, weaving bright blooms into Rosalyn's raven hair. She had braided the hair around the bride's oval face; the rest of her thick dark hair was left to hang in loose waves.

"Why is that?" Rosalyn asked, turning to look at the Princess who had been so incredibly nice since her arrival a week earlier. She was warm hearted and sincere in spite of her and Rosalyn's differences in tastes and hobbies. Rosalyn was quite fond of her.

"I fear I did not like your betrothed when I first met him." Rosalyn laughed, her face splitting into a wide, infectious smile.

"I will let you in on a little secret, your Highness." The women leaned forward conspiratorially. "I didn't either." Rosalyn whispered, then added in her normal voice, "I think I should thank you, your Highness, for not liking him. Had he made a more favorable impression I might not have had the opportunity to discover what a treasure he is and how very dear he is to me." The women shared a smile.

"I like him better now, seeing how much you love one another. I should like to remain friends with you and your Lord." Rosalyn threw her arms around the scarlet haired Princess and hugged her tightly.

"I'd like that very much and I believe Dougal would as well. And even if he does not,_ I'd_ like that very much." They laughed and Merida returned to weaving wreath of flowers into the bride's hair.

"Ros," Rhiannon called, entering the small cabin constructed near the marriage circle, it was built as a place for the bride to ready herself before the wedding and as the place the bride and groom would return after the wedding to spend some time together in private getting to know one another. Merida and Rosalyn had spent the night before giggling and talking in the comfortable space. Rosalyn's mother and sisters had arrived to take her to the ceremony.

"Ros, _A leanbh_, are you ready?"1 Rhiannon asked warmly, behind her Agnes, Catriona, Fiona, and Ina stood in varying expressions of Anger. Agnes beamed happily at her eldest sister, Fiona and Ina were disappointed but resigned, and Catriona was still furiously indignant about the whole affair.

"Almost, Mama, almost." Rosalyn beamed. Merida was putting the finishing touches on her hair and she felt as beautiful as the Goddess herself. It was almost too amazing to be true.

"Rosalyn you look amazing." Fiona breathed as if she couldn't believe her eyes. Rosalyn felt as if she might cry or her cheeks would burst from her smile. She blushed and smoothed her hand over her skirt. It was a beautiful forest green dress with tight sleeves that came down over the backs of her hands in triangles, the neck scooped off her shoulders and the neck, hem, and sleeves were embroidered with her favorite knot pattern. She'd begun work on this dress while she nursed Dougal, it had felt a bit presumptuous but also like a promise. When he opened his eyes (for Dougal would live) she would do everything in her power to love him as best she could and to be the woman he could love as well.

He did live, he did love her, and her dress was now finished.

"Oh please, Fiona, it is the same plain Rosalyn. A new frock doesn't change that. I don't understand why everyone is making such a fuss anyway. We all know why he's marrying you." Thunder rolled outside as Catriona's words lashed out. The Princess stopped mid gesture. Fiona blinked, Ina gasped, and Agnes turned scarlet with embarrassment and shame. Rhiannon opened her mouth but nothing came out at first. The wind picked up outside. Out of the women in the room the first to recover was Rosalyn. She drew herself up tall and strong, her eyes boring into her sister. If her grey eyes were the steel they resembled the second eldest Brolchain would be slain.

"Yes, we all know why Dougal is marrying me. It's because he loves me, he wants to marry me and I love him. That is why we are getting married. I don't care if you're happy for me, there is not an instrument yet created to measure how few fucks I give about your happiness right now. I don't need you to be happy for me I just need you to NOT RUINE MY WEDDING!" Rosalyn's voice did not shake as she spoke, she did not waver but her eyes betrayed her anguish and her anger.

"You will never marry Catriona until you learn to love someone more than you love yourself." Rosalyn added so quiet she was almost inaudible.

A round of applause broke the tense moment between siblings; standing in the doorway smiling a satisfied sort of smile was his Royal Highness King Fergus Dunbroch, the first of his name.

"Well said, Lady Rosalyn, very well said. Now there is a very anxious young man waiting for you. Are you ready to put him and us out of his fidgeting misery?" The king's smile became softer and sentimental but his oceanic eyes continued to glitter dangerously.

Rosalyn turned to look at her mother and Merida.

"How do I look?" She asked, a proper smile returning to light her face.

"Every inch the bride, Lass." The King said, "Your Laird won't be able to string two words together." He turned from Rosalyn to Catriona who was still fuming. "He's marrying her because the boy is smitten with her, but if you're implying something about the hateful rumors that are about don't you think that if she was with child she'd be a might bit bigger? Dougal's willingness to marry her in the face of scandal shows a great deal of maturity, responsibility, and honor. She loves him madly and he loves her and love of that kind redeems a multitude of sins." Catriona's jaw fairly unhinged in shock while Merida beamed at her father. "Let's get you married Lass." Rosalyn gapped at her sovereign for a long moment before smiling brightly and following him out of the cabin.

"I'm getting married today." She said gleefully.

Fergus returned to the stone circle a short yet entirely too long time later, his face was nearly as dark as the clouds that had spontaneously and ominously gathered.

"They're on their way, m'boy. Are you fully prepared to deal with her family?" Dougal looked to the skies again.

"Catriona?"

"That girl is not right."

"Ready, _A ghrá geal_?"2 Thomas asked his eldest child, offering her his arm. His kilt was new, special for the occasion, his chest and arms were freshly painted and his beard decorated with braids. Rosalyn beamed at her father.

"Yes, Daddy, I think I am."

Gregor's hand slipped off Dougal's shoulder when Rosalyn and her father came into view. In all the years Dougal had been in love with Rosalyn Brolchain Gregor had not ever seen her in the flesh. Suddenly he could understand how his friend could be so enamored for so long. The Lady Rosalyn had sun warmed skin, freckles sprinkled across her straight nose. Her hair was the color of midnight and fell nearly to her hips in thick waves, fresh blossoms framing her face. Her green gown clung to the curves and lines of her tall, full figure. Yet the most beautiful part of the bride was the smile that illuminated her face when her grey eyes caught sight of her groom.

The Lady Rhiannon and the Laird Thomas Brolchain had offered Merida a place before them in the bridal procession but the future Queen had demurred. On her wedding day the bride and her Lord husband should be the focus of attention, and so Merida followed behind Rosalyn, falling into step with the youngest Brolchain, Agnes. Nes, as her eldest sister almost exclusively called her was a sweet girl, tall, comely, and sincere. She favored her eldest sister in coloring, and Merida hoped good sense. She seemed genuinely happy for her sister, unlike the middle three Brolchains. Honey haired and honeyed words and false as hell Merida found she liked very little about Ina and Fiona Brolchain. She liked far less about Catriona Brolchain.

Merida's musings were suspended as she took her place beside her mother, the Queen, alongside the ladies Macintosh and MacGuffin. Standing in the center of the circle was her father, flanked by young Macintosh and young MacGuffin. She could tell the exact moment when Dougal caught sight of his Lady. The Laird's eyes lit up like the summer sky, his posture softened slightly – relaxing – and his smile… Merida looked away. He really loved her. Deeply and truly. It made her like him better. Merida's eyes fell on Dougal's best man.

Gregor MacGuffin was still turned in on himself, uncomfortable with attention centering near him but at the same time looking much happier than when she first met him. It seemed a lifetime ago that the handsome eldest son of the north stood in the great hall and made her heart turn inside out. He was so striking standing beside his friend, looking truly happy for the couple. He'd grown a beard since the Highland games, it covered nearly the entire scar he'd received in the war. Merida could not see the wound but she still felt ill thinking about it. He had nearly died. If her father was to be believed Dougal Macintosh had actually died. Life was too short and unpredictable to dawdle on matters of the heart.

"Lords and Ladies," her father drew her attention back to the wedding at hand and not the nuptials she hoped would be in the future. "Today we come together in celebration. For today is the day Laird Dougal Macintosh and Lady Rosalyn Brolchain will begin a new life – together." Cheers went up from the crowd along with several calls of '_About time!_'

"Who supports this young man in his decision to wed?"

"We do." Lord and Lady Macintosh said firmly, although Merida could see tears glistening in the leeward Lord's eyes.

"And who supports this young woman in her decision to wed?"

"We do." Announced Laird and Lady Brolchain in chorus with all their daughters except Catriona who kept her mouth shut in a sour line.

"Very good." Fergus laughed. "Now, Dougal, do you understand that in this marriage you are making a pledge? You are pledging to love Rosalyn with all of her faults and her strengths and you are offering her yourself with all of your faults and all of your strengths. You pledge to help when she needs help, and in turn that you will ask for her when you need help. In this marriage ceremony you promise to love unconditionally, to support her in her goals, to honor and respect the Lady Rosalyn, to laugh with her and cry with her, and to cherish her for as long as you both shall live. Do you understand Dougal Macintosh?"

"I do understand." Dougal said in a clear voice, his head held high.

"If you promise please extend your hand to your bride." Dougal turned from looking toward his King to looking directly into the eyes of his bride, her grey gaze was misted with happy tears. He smiled as he spoke, left hand reaching out for her.

"I promise you this, Rosalyn, from my heart, for all the days of my life."

"Now, Rosalyn," Fergus continued, "do you understand that in this marriage you are making a pledge? You are pledging to love Dougal with all of his faults and his strengths and you are offering him yourself with all of your faults and all of your strengths. You pledge to help when he needs help, and in turn that you will ask for him when you need help. In this marriage ceremony you promise to love unconditionally, to support him in his goals, to honor and respect the Laird Macintosh, to laugh with him and cry with him, and to cherish him for as long as you both shall live. Do you understand Rosalyn Brolchain?"

"I do." Rosalyn replied, her voice straining with emotion.

"If you promise please accept your husband's hand." Playfully Rosalyn extended her hand to him only to pull it away quickly. Dougal narrowed his eyes at her and she smiled brightly, fat tears working their way down her cheek as she laced her fingers with his.

"I promise you this, Dougal, from my heart, for all the days of my life." She repeated back to him, squeezing his hand.

"Gregor, the cord please." From out of his sporran Young MacGuffin produced a length of ribbon in Macintosh clan colors.3

"Today we bind together two lives to make one." Fergus began as he wound the cord around Rosalyn and Dougal's clasped hands. "Soul to soul, heart to heart, mind to mind through all the tumult of our age you are bound together. If any person wishes to object speak now or forever hold your peace."

Merida watched hawkishly for trouble and she saw Laird Brolchain do the same, his eyes lingering on his second eldest daughter. No objection came. The King looked about and seeing that everyone stood in support tied the two ends of the fabric together in a tight knot.

"Then it is my great pleasure to be the first to recognize you as Laird and Lady Macintosh. A kiss will seal this union!"

As their lips met the grey skies parted and a vibrant rainbow arched over their heads. Merida looked at Agnes who simply beamed in reply.

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1 _A leanbh_: Little One

2 _A ghrá geal_: Beloved

3 A sporran is the little pouchy thing worn in front when wearing a kilt because kilts don't have pockets.


End file.
